THE 
NIGHT  COURT 

AND 
OTHER  VERSE 


UC-NRLF 


B    3 


RUTH 
COMFORT 
MITCHELL 


/--•--••  fak  4x<>r--XN-Xk\ 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 
AND  OTHER  VERSE 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 
AND  OTHER  VERSE 


BY 

RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published,  October,  1916 


TO 

FLORENCE  STANDISH  MOWATT  MITCHELL 

Because  you  made  the  freedom  where  it  grew 
My  first'  small  book  goes,  with  my  love,  to  you. 


Grateful  acknowledgment  is  due  the  editors  of  the 
Century,  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse,  the  Smart  Set, 
Sunset  Magazine,  Impressions  Quarterly,  The  Independ 
ent,  and  the  Boston  Transcript  for  permission  to  reprint 
herein  verses  which  appeared  originally  in  their  pages. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  NIGHT  COURT 3 

THE  VINEGAR  MAN 6 

DULZURA 8 

"  THE  ORIENT,  HALF  MOROCCO,  8  Vo  "  .      .      .      .  9 

iQuiEN  SABE? n 

THE  OLD  MAID 13 

ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC 16 

EL  PONIENTE 20 

HE  WENT  FOR  A  SOLDIER 21 

PRAYER 23 

THE  SIN  EATER 24 

CASA  VERDUGO 27 

THE  WISHING  BRIDGE 29 

FRENZY 32 

"  EVER  OF  THEE  " 34 

PAPYRUS 37 

LEAH    ...,,.,., 38 

RONDEL 42 

REVELATION 43 

IN  THE  COURT  OF  ABUNDANCE 45 

WHILE  THE  TRAIN  WAITS 48 

SYMPHONY  PATHETIQUE 51 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SUBWAY 53 

VENETIAN  BOATS 57 

BARBARA 59 

CITY-BOUND 60 

SARAH  CLEGHORN 61 

A  MOUNTAIN  MUMMER 62 

CHERRY  WAY 65 

BONDAGE 66 

DELIVERANCE 67 

POST-GRADUATE 68 

THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 69 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 
AND  OTHER  VERSE 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 

"  Call  Rose  Costara  !  " 

Insolent   she   comes. 

The  watchers,  practised,  keen,  turn  down  their  thumbs. 
The  walk,  the  talk,  the  face  —  that  seashell  tint, — 
It  is  old  stuff ;  they  read  her  like  coarse  print. 
Here  is  no  hapless  innocence  waylaid. 
This  is  a  stolid  worker  at  her  trade. 
Listening,  she  yawns,  half  smiling,  undismayed, 
Shrugging  a  little  at  the  law's  delay, 
Bored  and  impatient  to  be  on  her  way. 
It  is  her  eighth  conviction.     Out  beyond  the  rail 
A  lady  novelist  in  search  of  types  turns  pale. 
She  meant  to  write  of  them  just  as  she  found  them, 
And  with  no  tears  or  maudlin  glamour  round  them, 
In    forceful,    virile   words,    harsh,   true    words,    without 

shame, 

Calling  an  ugly  thing,  boldly,  an  ugly  name ; 
Sympathy,  velvet  glove,  on  purpose,  iron  hand. 
But  eighth  conviction!     All  the  phrases  she  had  planned 
Fail ;  "  sullen,"  "  vengeful,"  no,  she  is  n't  that. 
No,  the  pink  face  beneath  the  hectic  hat 
Gives  back  her  own  aghast  and  sickened  stare 
With  a  detached  and  rather  cheerful  air, 
And  then  the  little  novelist  sees  red. 
From  her  chaste  heart  all  clemency  is  fled. 
"  Oh,  loathsome !  venomous  !     Off  with  her  head  ! 

3 


4  THE  NIGHT  COURT 

Call  Rose  Costara !  "     But  before  you  stop, 
And  shelve  your  decent  rage, 

Let 's  call  the  cop. 

Let 's  call  the  plain-clothes  cop  who  brought  her  in. 
The  weary-eyed  night  watchman  of  the  law, 
A  shuffling  person  with  a  hanging  jaw, 
Loose-lipped  and  sallow,  rather  vague  of  chin, 
Comes  rubber-heeling  at  His  Honor's  rap. 
He  set  and  baited  and  then  sprung  the  trap  — 
The  trap  —  by  his  unsavory  report. 
Let 's  ask  him  why  —  but  first 

Let 's  call  the  court. 

Not  only  the  grim  figure  in  the  chair, 

Sphinx-like  above  the  waste  and  wreckage  there, 

Skeptical,  tired  of  a  retold  tale, 

But  the  whole  humming  hive,  the  false,  the  frail, — 

An  old  young  woman  with  a  weasel  face, 

A  lying  witness  waiting  in  his  place, 

Two  ferret  lawyers  nosing  out  a  case, 

Reporters  questioning  a  Mexican, 

Sobbing  her  silly  heart  out  for  her  man, 

Planning  to  feature  her,  "  lone,  desperate,  pretty, "- 

Yes,  call  the  court.     But  wait! 

Let's  call  the  city. 

Call  the  community  !     Call  up,  call  down ! 
Call  all  the  speeding,  mad,  unheeding  town ! 
Call  rags  and  tags,  and  then  call  velvet  gown ! 
Go,  summon  them  from  tenements  and  clubs, 
On  office  floors  and  over  steaming  tubs ! 


THE  NIGHT  COURT  5 

Shout  to  the  boxes  and  behind  the  scenes, 
Then  to  the  push  carts  and  the  limousines ! 
Arouse  the  lecture-room,  the  cabaret! 
Confound  them  with  a  trumpet  blast  and  say, 
"  Are  you  so  dull,  so  deaf  and  blind  indeed, 
That  you  mistake  the  harvest  for  the  seed?  " 
Condemn  them  for  —  but  stay  ! 

Let 's   call  the   code  — 

That  facile  thing  they  Ve  fashioned  to  their  mode : 

Smug  sophistries  that  smother  and  befool, 

That  numb  and  stupify ;  that  clumsy  thing 

That  measures  mountains  with  a  three-foot  rule, 

And  plumbs  the  ocean  with  a  pudding  string  — 

The  little,  brittle  code.     Here  is  the  root, 

Far  out  of  sight  and  buried  safe  and  deep, 

And  Rose  Costara  is  the  bitter  fruit. 

On  every  limb  and  leaf,  death,  ruin,  creep. 

So,  lady  novelist,  go  home  again. 

Rub  biting  acid  on  your  little  pen. 

Look  back  and  out  and  up  and  in,  and  then 

Write  that  it  is  no  job  for  pruning-shears. 

Tell  them  to  dig  for  years  and  years  and  years 

The  twined  and  twisted  roots.     Blot  out  the  page ; 

Invert  the  blundering  order  of  the  age ; 

Reverse  the  scheme :  the  last  shall  be  the  first. 

Summon  the  system,  starting  with  the  worst  — 

The  lying,  dying  code !     On,  down  the  line, 

The  city  and  the  court,  the  cop.     Assign 

The  guilt,  the  blame,  the  shame !     Sting,  lash,  and  spur ! 

Call  each  and  all!     Call  us!     And  then  call  her! 


THE  VINEGAR  MAN 

The   crazy  old   Vinegar   Man   is   dead !     He   never   had 

missed  a  day  before ! 
Somebody  went  to  his  tumbledown  shed  by  the  Haunted 

House  and  forced  the  door. 
There,  in  the  litter  of  his  pungent  pans,  the  murky  mess 

of  his  mixing  place  — 
Deep,  sticky  spiders  and  empty  cans  —  with  the  same  old 

frown  on  his  sour  old  face. 

"  Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar  Man ! 
Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can! 
Pepper  for  a  tongue  !     Pickle  for  a  nose  ! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and  vinegar  flows ! 
Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can ! 
Ketchup-and-chow-chow-and- Vinegar-Man ! " 

Nothing  but  recipes  and  worthless  junk;  greasy  old  rec 
ords  of  paid  and  due ; 

But  down  in  the  depths  of  a  battered  trunk,  a  queer, 
quaint  valentine,  torn  in  two  — 

Red  hearts  and  arrows  and  silver  lace,  and  a  prim,  dim 
ladylike  script  that  said  - 

(Oh,  Vinegar  Man  with  the  sour  old  face!) — ''With 
dearest  love,  from  Ellen  to  Ned !  " 


THE  VINEGAR  MAN  7 

"  Steel-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine ! 
He  pickles  his  heart  in  "—  a  valentine! 
"  Vinegar  for  blood !     Pepper  for  his  tongue  ! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and-  "  once  he  was  young! 

"  Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can  !  " 

"With  dearest  love  "—  to  the  Vinegar  Man! 

Dingy  little  books  of  profit  and  loss  (died  about  Saturday, 
so  they  say), 

And  a  queer,  quaint  valentine  torn  across  .  .  .  torn,  but 
it  never  was  thrown  away ! 

"  With  dearest  love  from  Ellen  to  Ned  "—  "  Old  Pep 
per  Tongue  !  Pickles  his  heart  in  brine  !  " 

The  Vinegar  Man  is  a  long  time  dead :  he  died  when  he 
tore  his  valentine. 


DULZURA 

Fading  day,  and  the  twilight  falling 
Cool,  with  its  quiet  peace  enthralling ; 
There  are  shrill  coyotes  calling 
In  the  beds  of  barren  streams. 
Dusk,  and  an  eagle  sailing  high ; 
Sun-baked  earth  and  the  placid  sky, 
And  a  slim,  gray  lizard  slipping  by  - 
And  a  brooding  hush  that  seems 
To  soothe  and  harbor  and  sanctify 
In  a  land  of  languid  dreams. 


"  THE  ORIENT,  HALF  MOROCCO,  8  VO  " 

She  bought  a  book,  once,  with  the  butter  money  — 
A  wild,  undreamed  of,  reckless  thing  to  do ! 
(So  much  to  manage  for  the  winter  schooling; 
That  split  in  Hannah  Mary's  Sunday  shoe.  .  .  .) 

The  cover  bravely  flaunted  gold  and  scarlet, — 
Gave  hint  and  promise  of  the  hidden  feast, 
Fine-grained  and  limber,  sleek  beneath  the  fingers, 
Frankly  symbolic  of  the  gorgeous  east. 

She  wrapt  it  up  and  laid  it  in  the  bureau ; 
She  knew  she  would  n't  get  to  read  it  soon, — 
Not  while  she  had  the  harvesters  to  cook  for, 
Tho'  maybe  ...  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  .  .  . 

How  often,  then,  her  thoughts  went  winging  to  it, 
Thro'  all  the  cumbered  days  she  had  to  wait, 
Till,  in  a  scanty  hour  of  hard-won  leisure, 
She  entered  shyly  thro'  the  latticed  gate: 

Dim  harims  .  .  .  sultans  .  .  .  yashmaks  .  .  .  cloudy  nargil- 

lehs  — 

Strange  sounding  words  from  f ar-ofY  story  lands ; 
The   farm-house   fades ;  the   Wishing  Carpet  bears  her 
To  Kairowan,  across  the  golden  sands. 

9 


10        'THE  ORIENT,  HALF  MOROCCO,  8  VO  " 

Since  then,  thro'  all  the  somber  woof  of  living, 
For  her  the  mystic  Orient  weaves  its  spells ; 
Faintly,  at  dawn,  down  thro'  the  dairy  pasture, 
She  seems  to  hear  the  chime  of  temple  bells. 

Now  she  can  see  across  the  piles  of  mending  — 
(There  is  a  window  in  her  prison  tower!) 
Beyond  the  baking  and  the  baby  tending 
The  Mueddin  calls  across  the  sunset  hour. 

When  the  fierce  August  sun  in  grudging  mercy, 
Threatening  worse  torments  for  the  morrow,  sets, 
The  battered  barns,  the  tanks,  the  gilded  hay  cocks, 
Are  distant  domes  and  towers  and  minarets. 

The  sullen  farmer,  summoned  in  to  supper, 
Weary  and  silent  as  he  slouches  down, 
To  her  fresh  eyes  becomes  a  mighty  Caliph 
Whose  minions  tremble  at  his  slightest  frown. 

Subtlest  of  all  —  of  course  they  do  not  mark  it  — 
She  in  herself  is  gently  touched  with  grace  — 
The  swifter  carriage  of  her  toil-warped  figure, 
The  ghost  of  girlhood  in  her  furrowed  face. 

Sometimes  they  have  to  call  her  twice,  and  sharply; 
(They  see  her,  and  they  think  that  she  is  there!) 
Thro'  all  the  homely  clamor,  she  is  hearing 
Oh,  very  near  and  clear,  The  Call  to  Prayer! 


iQUIEN  SABE? 

In  Cordoba  within  the  drowsing  Plaza, 
Beyond  the  sleepy,  sun-drenched  market-place, 
Vacant  and  bare,  denuded  of  its  statue, 
There  stands  a  scarred  and  mournful  marble  base. 
The  hours  are  tinkled  from  the  old  Cathedral, 
Gray-grim  against  the  brilliance  of  the  sky, 
And  swooping  downward  in  their  clumsy  circles 
The  ugly,  dun-winged  buzzards  slowly  fly. 

They  light  and  struggle  fiercely  for  a  foothold  ; 

Their  quarrels,  shrill,  discordant,  pierce  the  air ; 

The  sluggish  stream  of  life  within  the  city 

Flows  ever  onward,  calmly  unaware. 

You  ask  in  vain  whose  statue  used  to  stand  there, — 

A  sun-drunk  peon,  dozing  out  his  day, 

A  grave  eyed  priest,  a  woman  with  tortillas, — 

The  same  regretful,  velvet  (f  Yo  no  se!" 

There  was  a  scene  here  once  to  fit  the  setting, 
If  we  could  pierce  the  shrouding  of  the  years ; 
There  was  a  day  for  reverent  unveiling  .  .  . 
And  swelling  hearts,  and  brimming  eyes,  and  cheers. 
What  patriot,  red-blooded,  gave  it  reason? 
What  martyr  marked  it  with  his  placid  smile  ? 
Who  set  the  pulses  leaping  for  a  season, 
And  held  the  lime-light  for  a  little  while? 

n 


12  .iQUIEN  SABE? 

Who  dares  believe  his  laurel  is  immortal? 
Who  thinks  the  marble  proof  against  the  years?  — 
Or  dreams  the  memory  of  his  deed  will  linger 
When  stilled  the  hearts,  and  dried  away  the  tears? 
A  fluttered  flag,  a  sudden  blare  of  trumpets, 
A  path  of  flowers,  a  little  burst  of  song.  .  .  . 
Then  withering  and  fading  and  the  silence  .  .  . 
Time  dims  all  luster,  and  the  years  are  long. 

And  now,  within  the  hushed  and  drowsing  Plaza, 
Beyond  the  sleepy,  sun-drenched  market-place, 
Stained  with  the  years  and  weathered  with  the  seasons, 
There  stands  a  scarred  and  mournful  marble  base. 
Unheeding  round  its  story  flows  forever 
The  lazy  current  of  the  dozing  town, 
And  on  it,  hurtling  in  their  clumsy  circles, 
The  ugly,  dun-winged  buzzards  settle  down. 


THE  OLD  MAID 

She  crossed  over  from  the  mainland  on  a  wicked  winter 

morning, — 
I  have  never  seen  the  mainland, —  the  sky  was  black  with 

squall ; 

I  mind  well  the  sinful  weather 
And  the  ruin  of  her  feather. 

Eh,  she  was  wet  as  water,  but  she  never  cared  at  all. 
We  took  her  for  a  missioner;  she  giggled  when  we  told 

her  so ; 

A  funny,  sudden  laugh  she  had,  that  lifted  like  a  tune. 
She  said  she  liked  the  look  of  us, 
And  thought  she  'd  make  a  book  of  us. 
She  took  our  little  upstairs  room  and  stayed  until  the 

June. 


No  man  at  all  to  fend  for  her !     "  Poor  thing !  "  I  would 

be  calling  her. 
There  was  no  fortune  in  her  face  and  she  was  monstrous 

old. 

When  I  was  lacking  years  of  that 
I  'd  'Lizabeth  and  Lem  and  Nat ; 
But  you  'd  have  thought  her  seventeen  the  way  she  up  and 

told. 
And  always  smiling  to  herself,  the  like  of  hearing  happy 

news, 

13 


14  THE  OLD  MAID 

And  kind  of  keeping  marching  step,  as  if  she  heard  a 

band. 

The  gay  and  swinging  stride  of  her! 
Eh,  grief  and  care  walked  wide  of  her ! 
I  'd  leave  my  work  to  look  at  her  go  speeding  down  the 

sand. 


"  Sea-going  men,  home-keeping  maids,"  that 's  what  the 

parson  always  says, 
But  just  the  same  he  liked  her  fine,  and  Doc  and  Teacher, 

too, 

And  rare  and  pleased  to  walk  with  her, 
To  lug  her  books  and  talk  with  her. 
I  wonder  is  her  way  the  way  all  mainland  women  do  ? 
And  how  the  children  tagged  her  round,  and  what  she 

could  n't  do  with  them ! 

It  was  n't  hardly  fair  to  us,  somehow,  it  seemed  to  me, 
The  way  she  could  be  sharing  them 
Without  the  pang  of  bearing  them. 
I  'd  sit  and  think  and  think  of  it  when  Lem  was  on  the 

sea. 


She  used  to  tell  me  stories,  too.  Some  of  them  I  remem 
ber  still. 

I  went  far  up  the  Cove  and  cried  the  day  the  book  was 
through. 

Afternoons  we  sewed  together 

And  she  gave  me  that  grand  feather. 

I  curled  it  in  the  oven  and  it  came  as  good  as  new. 

The  while  she  stayed  it  did  n't  seem  the  island  was  a  lone 
some  place. 


THE  OLD  MAID  15 

The  town  went  swarming  to  the  boat  and  waving  her 

Good-by. 

I  redded  up  the  room  again, 
Eh,  back  to  mop  and  broom  again  ! 
But  I  'm  going  to  see  the  mainland  some  day  before  I  die. 


ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC 

One  summer  I  Columbused  John,  in  Prague,  that  deadly, 

Bush  League  town. 

I  'd  quit  'em  cold  on  pictures  and  cathedrals  for  a  while. 
I  hung  around  for  Ma  and  Sis  (Good  Lord,  there  wasn't 

one  they  'd  miss  • — 
Pale  martyrs  till  you  could  n't  sleep, —  Madonnas  by  the 

mile!). 

I  read  some  dope  in  Baedeker  about  a  tablet  on  the  bridge, 
And  how  they  slipped  this  poor  old  scout  the  double  cross 

for  fair. 
I  'm  off  High  Brow  historic  truck,  but  this  old  boy  of 

Nepomuc, 
You  must  admit  he  was  the  goods.     Believe  me,  he  was 

there! 


The  King  was  Wenzel  Number  Four.     John  was  Sky 

Pilot  for  the  Court. 
King  gets  a  hunch  that  Mrs.  King  has  something  on  her 

mind. 
He  goes  to  sleuthing  more  and  more.     He  says  —  •"  Gad- 

zooks,  I  '11  have  their  gore !  " 
(Don't  ever  let  'em  string  you  on  that  bunk  that  love  is 

blind!) 

16 


ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC  17 

The  Queen  (I'll  bet  she  was  some  queen)  she  tangoes 

blithely  on  her  way, 
And  fails  to  see  the  storm  clouds  on  the  regal  husband's 

dome. 
I  got  him  guessed,  that  Wenzel  guy,  harpoons  a  girl  that 's 

young  and  spry, 
And  tries  to  seal  her  up   for  life  in  the  Old   People's 

Home ! 

The  way  I  had  it  figured  out  she  married  him  to  please 

her  folks : 
"  Our  son-in-law,  the  King,  you  know!  "     (Some  speed! 

I  guess  that 's  poor?) 
So,  when  she  sights  a  Maiden's  Dream,  some  real  live 

wire  that 's  made  the  team 
Well,  she  sits  up  and  notices,  like  any  girl.     Why,  sure ! 

Old   Wenzel   can't   quite   cinch   the   case,   but   what    he 

does  n't  know,  he  thinks. 

The  lump  he  calls  a  heart  congeals  beneath  his  fancy  vest. 
He  sends  for  poor  old  Father  John  and  says  as  follows  — 

"  I  am  on ! 
I   merely   lack   a    few   details !     What   hath    the   Queen 

confessed?  " 
He  holds  the  Court  upon  the  bridge.     "  Speak  up,"  he 

says,  "  or  otherwise 
These   spears   shall   thrust   you   down   to   death !     Come 

through!     I  am  the  King! 
Kick  in!     What  did  my  spouse  confess?"     The  Queen 

sends  frantic  S.  O.  S.  .  .  . 
Maybe  I  sort  of  dozed,  but  well, —  here  's  how  I  got  this 

thing  .  .  . 


i8  ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC 

He  saw  the  startled  courtiers,  straining  their  ears ; 
He  saw  the  white  Queen  swaying,  striving  to  stand ; 
He  saw  the  soldiers  tensely  gripping  their  spears, 
Waiting  the  King's  command. 
He  heard  a  small  page  drawing  a  sobbing  breath ; 
He  heard  a  bird's  call,  poignant  and  sweet  and  low ; 
He  heard  the  rush  of  the  river,  spelling  death, 
Mocking  him,  down  below, 

But  he  only  said,  "  My  Liege, 

To  my  honor  you  lay  siege, 

And  that  fortress  you  can  never  overthrow." 

He  thought  of  how  he  had  led  them,  all  the  years ; 
He  thought  of  how  he  had  served  them,  death  and 

birth ; 
He    thought    of    healing    their    hates,    stilling    their 

fears.  .  . 

Humbly,  he  weighed  his  worth. 
He  knew  he  was  leaving  them  far  from  the  goal; 
He  knew  with  a  deep  joy  it  was  safe  and  wise.  .  .  . 
He  knew  that  now  the  pale  Queen's  pitiful  soul 
Would  awake  and  arise, 

And  he  only  said,  "  My  King, 

Every  argument  you  bring 

Merely  sets  my  duty  forth  in  sterner  guise." 

He  felt  the  spears'  points,  merciless,  thrust  him  down; 

He  felt  the  exquisite,  fierce  glory  of  pain  ; 

He  felt  the  bright  waves  eager,  reaching  to  drown, 

Engulf  him,  body  and  brain : 

He  sensed  cries,  faint  and  clamorous,  far  behind ; 

He  sensed  cool  peace,  and  the  buoyant  arms  of  love; 


ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC  19 

He  sensed  like  a  beacon,  clear,  beckoning  kind, 
Five  stars,  floating'  above.  .  .  . 

To  the  ones  who  watched,  it  seemed 

That  he  slept  .  .  .  and  smiled  .  .  .  and  dreamed  .  .  . 

"  And  the  waters  were  abated  .  .  .  and  the  dove  "... 

And  there  I  was  on  that  old  bridge  .  .  .  boob  Freshman 

me  on  that  same  bridge ! 
The  lazy  river  hummed  and  purred  and  sang  a  sleepy 

song  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  know  it  listens  queer,  but  gad,  it  was  so  real 

and  near, 
I  stood  there  basking  in  the  sun  for  goodness  knows  how 

long. 

Sometimes  I  see  it  even  now  :  I  see  that  little  lean  old  saint 

Put  up  against  the  shining  spears  his  simple  nerve  and 
pluck : 

And  once,  by  Jove,  you  know,  he  came  right  down  be 
side  me  in  the  game.  .  .  . 

We  know  who  made  the  touchdown  then,  old  John  of 
Nepomuc ! 


EL  PONIENTE 

Beneath  the  train  the  miles  are  folded  by: 

High  and  still  higher  thro'  the  vibrant  air 

We  mount  and  climb.     Silence  and  brazen  glare; 

Desert  and  sage-brush  ;  cactus  ;  alkali ; 

Tiny,  low-growing  flowers,  brilliant,  dry; 

A  vanishing  coyote,  lean  and  spare, 

Lopes  slowly  homeward  with  a  backward  stare 

To  jig-saw  hills  cut  sharp  against  the  sky. 

In  the  hard  turquoise  rides  a  copper  sun: 

Old  hopes  come  thronging  with  an  urge,  a  zest: 

Beside  the  window  gliding  wires  run, 

Binding  two  oceans.     Argosy  and  quest! 

Old  dreams  remembered  to  be  dreamed  and  done! 

It  is  young  air  we  breathe.     This  is  the  west ! 


20 


HE  WENT  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

He  marched  away  with  a  blithe  young  score  of  him 

With  the  first  volunteers, 

Clear-eyed  and  clean  and  sound  to  the  core  of  him, 
Blushing  under  the  cheers. 

They  were  fine,  new  flags  that  swung  a-flying  there,- 
Oh,  the  pretty  girls  he  glimpsed  a-crying  there, 
Pelting  him  with  pinks  and  with  roses  — 
Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy! 

Not  very  clear  in  the  kind  young  heart  of  him 

What  the  fuss  was  about, 

But  the  flowers  and  the  flags  seemed  part  of  him  — 
The  music  drowned  his  doubt. 

It 's  fine,  brave  sight  they  were  a-coming  there 
To  the  gay,  bold  tune  they  kept  a-drumming  there, 
While  the  boasting  fifes  shrilled  jauntily  - 
Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy! 

Soon  he  is  one  with  the  blinding  smoke  of  it  — 

Volley  and  curse  and  groan : 
Then  he  has  done  with  the  knightly  joke  of  it  - 
It 's  rending  flesh  and  bone. 

There  are  pain-crazed  animals  a-shrieking  there ; 
And  a  warm  blood  stench  that  is  a-reeking  there ; 
He  fights  like  a  rat  in  a  corner  — 
Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy ! 
21 


22  HE  WENT  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

There  he  lies  now,  like  a  ghoulish  score  of  him, 

Left  on  the  field  for  dead : 

The  ground  all  round  is  smeared  with  the  gore  of  him  — 
Even  the  leaves  are  red. 

The  thing  that  was  Billy  lies  a-dying  there, 
Writhing  and  a-twisting  and  a-crying  there; 
A  sickening  sun  grins  down  on  him  — 
Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy! 

Still  not  quite  clear  in  the  poor  wrung  heart  of  him 

What  the  fuss  was  about, 

See  where  he  lies  —  or  a  ghastly  part  of  him  — 
W^hile  life  is  oozing  out : 

There  are  loathsome  things  he  sees  a-crawling  there ; 
There  are  hoarse  voiced  crows  he  hears   a-calling 

there, 

Eager  for  the  foul  feast  spread  for  them  — 
Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy ! 

How  much  longer,  oh  Lord,  shall  we  bear  it  all? 

How  many  more  red  years? 
Story  it  and  glory  it  and  share  it  all, 
In  seas  of  blood  and  tears? 

They  are  braggart  attitudes  we've  worn  so  long; 
They  are  tinsel  platitudes  we  've  sworn  so  long  — 
We  who  have  turned  the  Devil's  Grindstone, 
Borne  with  the  hell  called  War! 


PRAYER 

(From  the  German) 

Grant  that  deep  in  my  heart,  dear  God, 
The  spring  of  my  youth  shall  stay, 
As  sometimes  gleams  in  an  Autumn  wood 
A  bit  of  the  green  of  May. 

And  when  it  comes  to  my  life's  last  leaf, 
Vouchsafe  that  it  may  be  one 
Withered  and  frail  in  the  blast,  but  still 
Gay  with  the  gold  of  the  sun. 

So  be  my  passing,  still,  serene, 
In  the  wise  Earth-Mother's  way : 
Grant  that  deep  in  my  heart,  dear  God, 
The  spring  of  my  youth  shall  stay ! 


THE  SIN  EATER 

I 

Hark   ye  !     Hush   ye  !     Margot  's    dead  ! 
Hush !     Ha'  done  wi'  your  brawling  tune ! 
Danced,  she  did,  till  the  stars  grew  pale ; 
Mother  o'  God,  an'  she  's  gone  at  noon ! 
Sh-h  .  .  .  d'ye  hear  me?  —  Margot 's  dead! 
Sickened  an'  drooped  an'  died  in  an  hour. 
(Bring  me  th'  milk  an'  th'  meat  an'  bread!) 
Drooped,  she  did,  like  a  wilted  flower. 
Come  an'  look  at  her,  how  she  lies, 
Little  an'  lone  an'  like  she  's  scared.  .  .  . 
(She  lost  her  beads  last  Friday  week, 
Tore  her  book,  an'  she  never  cared.) 
Eh,  my  lass,  but  it 's  winter,  now  — 
You  that  ever  was  meant  for  June, — 
Your  laughing  mouth  and  your  dancing  feet- 
An'  now  you  're  done,  like  an  ended  tune. 
Where  's  that  woman  ?     Ah,  give  it  me  quick 
Food  at  her  head  and  her  poor,  still  feet.  .  .  . 
There  's  plenty,  fool !     D'  ye  think  th'  wench 
Has  so  many  sins  for  Himself  to  eat? 
Take  up  your  cloak  an'  hand  me  mine. 
Are  we  fetching  him?     Eh,  for  sure, 
An'  you  '11  come  with  me  for  all  your  quakes, 
Clear  to  his  cave  across  th'  moor ! 


24 


THE  SIN  EATER  25 


—  Margot,  dearie,  don't  look  so  scared ! 
It 's  no  long  while  till  your  peace  begins. 
What  if  you  tore  your  book,  poor  lamb? 
I  'm  bringing  you  one  will  eat  your  sins ! 


II 

It 's  a  blood  red  sun  that 's  sinking  .  .  . 

Ohooo  .  .  .  but  th'  marshland  's  drear ! 

Woman,  for  why  will  you  be  shrinking? 

I  'm  telling  you  there  's  nought  to  fear. 

Wrhat  if  the  twilight 's  gloomish 

An'  th'  shadows  creep  an'  crawl  ?  — 

Woman,  woman,  here  '11  be  th'  cave  — 

Stand  by  me  close  till  I  call ! 

"  Sin  Eater  !     Devil  Cheater !  " 
(Eh,  it  echoes  hollowly!) 
"  Margot 's  dead  at  Willow  Farm ! 
Shroud  your  face  and  follow  me !  " 


III 

One  o'  th'  clock  .  .  .  two  o'  th'  clock 
This  night 's  a  week  in  span. 
Still  he  crouches  by  her  side, 
Devil  .  .  .  ghost  ...  or  man? 


26  THE  SIN  EATER 

IV 

Woman,  never  cock's  crow  sounded  sweet  before! 
Set  th'  casement  wide  ajar,  fasten  back  th'  door! 
(Eh,  but  I  be  cold  an'  stiff,  waiting  for  th'  dawn!) 
Fetch  me  flowers  —  jessamine —    See,  th'  food  is  gone! 
Light  enough  to  see  her  now  .  .  .  Mary!     How  her  face 
Shines  on  us  like  altar  fires,  now  she  's  sure  o'  grace ! 
Never  mind  your  book,  my  lamb,  never  heed  your  beads ! 
There  's  th'  Gleam  before  you  now, —  follow  where  it 
leads ! 


V 

Tearful  peace  and  gentle  grief 
Brood  on  Willow  Farm : 
Margot,  sleeping  in  her  flowers, 
Smiles,  secure  from  harm : 
In  a  cave  across  the  moor, 
Dank  and  dark  within, 
Moans  the  trafficker  in  souls, 
Freshly  bowed  with  sin. 


CASA  VERDUGO 

In  the  distance,  growing  nearer,  there  's  a  jangling  trolley 

car; 

There's  an  irritating  echo  of  a  thousand  things  that  jar; 
There  's  a  buzzing  band  of  tourists  and  a  dozen  bores  to 

shun  — 

But  there  comes  a  subtle  silence  with  the  sinking  of  the 
sun. 

When  the  dusk  is  creeping,  gray, 
Comes  a  breath  of  yesterday. 
Girded  by  the  quiet  hills 
There  's  a  mystery  that  stills. 


With  the  mantle  of  the  twilight  comes  the  light  of  other 

days, 
W^hen  the  garish  lanterns  glimmer  through  the  peppers' 

misty  maze, 
And  in  the  fields  beyond  us  where  the  grasses  bend  and 

blow, 

The  crickets  chant  their  service  and  the  scarlet  poppies 
glow : 

Breath  of  orange  and  of  lime, 
Down  the  lazy  slopes  of  time ; 
Olden  days,  golden  days, 
Trooping  down  the  dusky  ways. 

27 


28  CASA  VERDUGO 

Can  you  conjure  up  a  picture  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
When   the   window   framed   a   portrait   for  the   cavalier 

below  ? 
Can  you  let  your  fancy  ramble  while  the  gentle  music 

purrs, 

Back  through  all  the  hazy  vistas  to  the  days  of  silver 
spurs  ?  — 

Lace  mantillas  —  flashing  blades  — 
Cabelleros  —  serenades  — 
Mandolin  and  soft  guitar, 
Casements  slyly  set  jar.  .  .  . 

Against  the  velvet  darkness  where  the  golden  stars  are  set 
The  hills  are  closing  nearer  in  a  somber  silhouette, 
And  the  spirit  of  the  evening  seems  to  silently  enfold 
And  surround  us  with  the  fragrance  of  the  gracious  days 
of  old- 

Hey-days  —  gay  days  — 

Trooping  down  the  dusky  ways, 

Castanets  —  one  forgets  — 

Far  away  the  city  frets. 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE 

'T  is  years  agone  I  saw  Herself ;  a  warm  and  wishful  day 

in  June, — 
A  Tourist  Lady,  silken  fine,  and  me,  the  ragged   wild 

gossoon ! 
I  ran  beside  her  stumbling  nag  (a  hard  mouthed  creature 

old  and  slow) 
The  seven  murdering  Irish  miles  up  thro'  the  Gap  of  old 

Dunloe. 

And  him  that  rode  forninst  Herself,  and  edging  nearer 

all  the  while !  - 
The  fat-jowled  ugly  old  mudhoon,  may  devil  take  his  oily 

smile ! 
I  saw  her  turn  her  head  aside,  the  whiles  he  'd  whisper 

in  her  ear; 
I  saw  the  stricken  eyes  of  her,  so  lost  and  lone  and  filled 

with  fear. 

But  her  old  mother  rode  behind!     She  watched  her  like 

a  pouncing  hawk, 
And  purred  like  any  pussy  cat,  and  strained  her  ear  to 

catch  their  talk. 
His  words  were  fair,  bad  scram  to  him,  but  oh,  her  mouth 

that  drooped  forlorn  !  — 
Alone,  for  all  the  Tourist  Folk,  and  lonesome  as  the  moon 

of  dawn. 

29 


30  THE  WISHING  BRIDGE 

"  Now  sorrow  take  your  gold,"  thinks  I.  "  What 's  jew 
els,  lands,  and  satin  clothes? 

If  you  'd  be  King  of  France  itself,  't  is  like  a  pig  would 
eat  a  rose  !  " 

The  furze  was  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  when  we  climbed 
the  topmost  ridge, 

"  Miss,  dear,"  I  points,  "  St.  Patrick's  Lake !  'T  is  there 
we  cross  the  Wishing  Bridge !  " 

"The  Wishing  Bridge!"  she  says  and  smiles,  and  oh, 

her  smile  was  worse  nor  tears. 
"  Give  him  the  '  no/  Miss,  dear,"  I  says,  too  low  for  any 

other  ears, 
And  then  rose  red  she  went,  the  lamb,  from  her  white 

neck  until  her  hair, 

And  —  "  Funny    Irish    boy,"    she    says,    "  how    did    you 
guess  —     How  do  you  dare  — " 

"  Allannah,    is   it   blind    I   am?     Sure,   he's   an   owl   if 

you  're  a  lass ! 
Lay  your  left  hand  upon  your  heart,  and  all  you  wish  will 

come  to  pass ! 
Not  while  the  furze  is  gold,"  I  says,  "  should  young  hearts 

ever  mate  with  old, 
Or  love  be  sold  for  pounds  or  pence, —  and  faith,  the 

furze  is  always  gold !  " 

She  stayed  her  nag  upon  the  bridge ;  I  saw  her  half  scared 

glances  dart: 
She  fetched  a  long  and  quivery  breath ;  she  laid  her  left 

hand  on  her  heart. 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE  31 

I  saw  her  eyes,  the  like  of  stars, — "  Ochone,"  thinks  I, 

"  sweet  saints  above  !  " 
Who  would  n't  sell  his  soul  itself  to  be  the  man  you  're 

thinking  of  ?  " 

Then  he  caught  up  and  whispered  low,  but  "  No,"  she 
gave  him  loud  and  clear, 

Her  head  held  up  like  any  queen,  and  bold  enough  for 
all  to  hear, 

And  she  rode  on  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  black  rage  be 
hind  her  there  — 

The  purple,  poisonous  look  he  had,  the  mother  fit  to  tear 
her  hair! 

And  then  that  furze  was  twice  as  gold,  and  like  an  angel's 

cloak  the  skies ! 
For  whiles  she  hummed  deludering  tunes,  and  whiles  she 

dreamed  with  misty  eyes. 
Too  soon  we  reached  Killarney's  Lake :  she  paid  me  well 

and  went  her  ways, 
And  oh,  the  Light  was  on  her  face !     God  save  her  kindly 

all  her  days ! 

Traveling  folk  come  year  by  year.     I  guide  and  serve 

them  as  before. 
I  tell  them  tales :  I  earn  my  hire :  I  see  the  likes  of  her 

no  more. 
It  warms  me  now,  on  winter  nights,  to  mind  her  look, 

that  day  in  June.  .  .  . 
A  Tourist  Lady,  silken  fine,  and  me,  the  ragged  wild 

gossoon ! 


FRENZY 

When  November  seasons  the  air  with  wine, 
Gray  day  or  golden,  rain  or  shine, 
The  touch  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin 
Is  the  alchemist  in  the  football  din. 
There  's  magic  first  in  the  pushing  crowd, — 
Jam  in,  cram  in,  you  're  not  proud ! 
You  hail  your  friends,  you  nod,  you  beam, 
Then  up  on  your  toes  to  greet  the  team ! 
(What 's  the  use  of  buying  a  seat?  — 
All  you  need  is  room  for  your  feet!) 
Monday  brings  the  same  old  grind  ~ 
Lock  the  desk  and  never  mind 
The  loan  you  need  and  the  mortgage  due, 
The  rent,  the  account  you  overdrew, 
The  deal  you  made  and  the  girl  you  kissed  — 
To-day  they  simply  don't  exist! 
Down  there  on  the  field  is  the  world  for  you, 
The  Team,  the  Team,  good  men  and  true! 
You  rise  and  fall  with  the  battle's  course ; 
You  shout  till  you  're  breathless,  red,  and  hoarse ; 
In  the  mad,  glad  sight  of  the  backs'  advance 
You  leap,  you  chortle,  you  gasp,  you  dance, 
You  yell,  for  the  football  speech  is  blunt  - 
"  You  there  in  the  mackintosh!     Down  in  front!  " 
Where  is  that  thing  you  hold  most  dear?  — 
That  mud-smeared,  blood-stained  leathern  sphere? 

32 


FRENZY  33 

A  pounding  heart  and  a  prickling  spine  — 
Rah  !     Ray !     Yip  !     Yi !     It 's  over  the  line ! 
Bedlam  —  Babel  — chaos  — then 
Your  hair  is  turning  white  again. 
Sickening  silence  .  .  .  you  'd  sell  your  soul 
To  see  that  ball  sail  over  the  goal ! 
Eternity  —  then  the  heavenly  din ! 
Your  voice  is  gone,  but  you  weep,  you  grin, 
Hug  the  stranger  and  love  your  foes, 
Forgive  your  debtors,  forget  your  woes, 
Ask  the  girl  for  her  answer  then, 
Strike  the  boss  for  the  raise  again ! 
The  sun  's  come  out  and  it 's  raining  flowers, 
It 's  hailing  nuggets  —  the  world  is  ours ! 
The  earth  's  ablaze  and  the  sky  's  aflame, — 
Life  is  good,  for  we've  won  the  game! 


"  EVER  OF  THEE  " 

I 

Crazy  Daisy  's  singing  to  her  fiddle  in  the  rain, 
With  the  wet  and  swirling  leaves,  dancing  down  the  lane. 
Maybe  I  can  coax  her  in  —  see,  she  's  coming  by ! 
(Land  t'  goodness,  Fraidy  Cat  —  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly!) 
Hark?     She's   playing   patch- work   tunes.  ...  It   must 

be  twenty  year.  .  .  . 
Lazy,  trifling  artist  scamp !  .  .  .  Listen !     Can  you  hear  ? 


"Ever  of  thce  I'm  fondly  dreaming.  .  .  . 
My  bonnie  lies  over  the  sea. 
When  other  lips  and  other  hearts.  .  .  . 
Oh,  bring  back  my  bonnie  to  me!" 

(I  wonder  if  he  thinks  of  her,  back  where  he  belongs, 
A-fiddling  her  days  away,  crazy-quilting  songs?) 


"'When    will    you    be    back,    Lord    Lovcll? '    she 

said.  .  .  . 

Oh,  Captain,  Captain,  tell  me  true, 
I  saw  three  ships  go  sailing  by  — 
Does  my  True  Lover  sail  with  youf" 


34 


"  EVER  OF  THEE  "  35 

II 

Of  a  Monday  she  '11  come  by 

When  the  clothes  are  drying, 

Stand  and  wring  her  hands  and  cry  — 

Thinks  it 's  sails  a'flying  — 

"  Little  white  wings,  will  you  float  me  down 

To  my  True  Love's  home  in  Boston  town? 

He  told  me  he  'd  come  back  some  day, 

To  the  girl  he  left  behind  him, 

But  I  'm  afeard  he  's  lost  his  way, 

So  I  must  go  and  find  him !  " 

III 

Sometimes  by  the  graveyard  wall 

She  will  stamp  her  foot  and  call  — 

"  Lazy  Dead  a'lying  there, 

Fie,  for  shame !     It  is  n't  fair !  " 

Then  she  '11  sigh  and  shake  her  head  — 

((  Who  's  alive  and  who  is  dead  ? 

Wisht  that  I  was  buried  deep; 

Maybe  I  could  get  my  sleep. 

WThy  should  you  be  resting  here? 

/  been  dead  this  twenty  year : 

Why  must  I  be  traipsing  round 

As  dead  as  I  can  be  ? 

Oh,  Long  Dead  and  Lucky  Dead, 

Get  up  and  dance  with  me !  " 


"  EVER  OF  THEE  " 


IV 

By  the  little  shiv'ry  house  where  she  lives  alone 

She  has  scratched  his  name  and  hers  on  the  stepping- 

stone. 
All  she  has  that  speaks  of  him  are  the  pictures,  stained 

and  dim  — 

Daisy  in  the  fading  dusk  and  Daisy  in  the  dawn, 
Daisy  in  the  candle  light,  with  her  figured  lawn.  .  .  . 
And  there  's  Crazy  Daisy  there,  with  her  gray  and  tangled 

hair.  .  .  . 
Nights,  if  you  go  by  that  way,  you  can  hear  the  fiddle 

say  — 

"  Lady  Nancibel  died  of  a  broken  heart.  .  .  . 
I'll  lay  me  doon  an'  dee.  .  .  . 
The  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets! 
Then  you  'II  .  .  .  remember  .  .  .  me  .  .  ." 


PAPYRUS 

Fringing  a  silent  stream  in  Sicily 

It  stands  remote,  a  link  of  living  green, 

Exultant  in  its  deathlessness  between 

Present  and  past,  eternal  as  the  sea. 

Far  from  its  ancient  home,  content  to  be 

The  last  of  all  its  legion,  like  a  queen 

In  exile,  dreaming  ever  of  some  scene 

Of  former  glory  .  .  .  prisoner,  yet  free. 

Dynasties  perish ;  palaces  are  dust ; 

The  templed  shrine  of  Zeus  a  ruin  lies ; 

Yet  here,  immune  from  Time's  death-dealing  thrust 

It  lives  aloof,  hoarding  its  precious  prize, 

Secure,  inviolate,  a  sacred  trust, 

Until  another  Homer  shall  arise. 


LEAH 

Out  of  Beersheba  Jacob  journeyed,  thro'  Padam-aram, 
valley  and  plain  and  stream, 

Best  beloved  of  his  mother,  he  of  the  stolen  birthright, 
he  of  the  Beth-el  dream ; 

Israel,  when  in  later  manhood  "  like  a  prince  he  pre 
vailed"  in  that  ghostly  strife: 

Now,  serene,  confident,  vision-driven,  he  was  come  to 
Haran,  seeking  a  wife. 

Calm  and  sure,  he  knew  his  own ; 

Rachel  waiting  at  the  well; 

Saw  her  comely,  luring,  fair, 

Straightway  kissed  and  claimed  her  there  — 

As  the  promise,  it  befell. 

Of  Laban's  daughters  Moses  tells  us,  finishing  with  a 
curious,  quaint  aside, 

"  Rachel,  the  younger,  was  beautiful  and  well  favored, 
but  Leah  was  tender  eyed." 

Jacob,  secure  of  his  ultimate  triumph,  of  the  safe  elect 
that  know  no  fears, 

Made  his  blithe  bargain  for  her  with  Laban,  lightly  as 
suming  service,  seven  years: 

Time  was  hung  with  rosy  wreaths : 
What  if  joy  and  hope  defer? 
38 


LEAH  39 

Walking  his  enchanted  ways 
Seven  years  were  seven  days  — 
"For  the  love  he  had  to  her." 

Laban,  when  the  time  was  ended,  summoned  all  his  kins 
men,  made  a  marvelous  feast, — 

White  wheaten  cakes,  and  the  tender  flesh  of  the  yearling, 
and  wine  of  the  mystic  east : 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  in  the  evening  that  Leah,  the  elder, 
ashen  pale, 

Cold  to  the  bone  and  sick  to  the  heart  of  her,  under  the 
film  of  the  shrouding  veil, 

Thro'  the  glimmering  twilight,  clad  in  the  mocking  bridal 
garments,  hidden  of  face, 

Laban  led  to  the  waiting  bridegroom,  crowning  his  service, 
into  her  sister's  place. 

"  And  behold  ...  it  was  Leah !  " 
(Grim  historian,  Moses!) 
Shattered  dream  and  jangled  tune, 
Wormwood  in  the  honeymoon, 
Dry  crust,  and  rue  for  roses ! 

"  Wherefore,  then,  hast  thou  beguiled  me?  " — "  It  is  thus 

in  the  land  of  Haran,"  Laban  said. 
"It  is  the  custom  of  our  country;  before  the  first-born, 

the  younger  may  not  wed. 
This  my  elder  daughter,  Leah,  now  look  you,  would  she 

not  be  comely,  but  for  tears  ? 
Would  you  have  Rachel  ?     Gladly  and  welcome !     Will 

you  serve  me  yet  again  seven  years  ?  " 


40  LEAH 

This  the  romance ;  beguiled  and  bitter  bridegroom, 
Fair,  cheated  Rachel,  prize  and  crown  and  spur ; 

Thus  we  have  wept  them,  softly,  down  the  ages, 
True  Love's  uneven  way, —  but  what  of  her? 

There  lies  the  drama,  there  the  subtle  story. 

Moses  has  limned  the  journey  of  a  soul, 
Up,  up,  and  onward,  toilfully  achieving, 

Climbing  from  chaos  toward  a   shining  goal, — 

Not  in  the  man,  predestinate  to  prosper, 

Not  in  the  maid,  in  conscious  power  and  pride, 

Worked  for  and  wanted,  Rachel  the  well  favored, 
But  in  the  other,  Leah  the  tender  eyed. 

No  promise  there !     No  vision  for  her  guiding. 

Hers  was  the  sackcloth,  hers  the  sterner  part : 
No  angels'  ladder  lighting  her  to  glory, 

No  stolen  blessing  for  her  burdened  heart ! 

Hers  to  endure  the  sullen  toleration, 

Hers  to  fall  back  before  the  wall  of  hate, 

Adamant,  unyielding;  longing  to  unlove  him; 
Poor  pawn  of  havoc  on  the  board  of  fate. 

Then,  out  of  darkness,  star-gleam  and  the  dawning,- 
"  Sing,  my  soul!     My  dolorous  days  are  done! 

Lo,  the  Lord  God  hath  heard  that  I  was  hated! 
Mercy  is  His!     I  bear  my  lord  a  son!" 

Mocking  mirage,  enhancing  arid  desert.  .  .  . 

Untouched;  unheeding;  ardently  he  went 
—  Scorning  her  still,  the  mother  of  his  man-child  - 

Over  the  gleaming  sands  to  Rachel's  tent.  .  .  . 


LEAH  41 

Three  times  again  she  fared  into  the  shadow, 

Three  times  again  she  strove  with  death  and  won ; 

Three  times  her  hope  went  winging  from  the  ashes  — 
"Shall  he  not  love  me  for  this  latest  son?" 

Three  times  her  heart  in  radiant  rejoicing 

Lilted,  ecstatic,  leaping  like  a  flame  — 
Reuben,  Simeon,  Levi  —  the  world  might  listen, 

Learning  her  longing  in  each  joyful  name. 

Faltering,  uncertain,  keeping  step  beside  her, 
Hope,  sick  and  sallow  with  relentless  years, 

Ever  attended,  slumbering  or  waking, 

By  her  lean  hand-maids,  faint  and  pallid  Fears.  .  .  . 

But  when  once  more  she  entered  that  grim  tourney, 
She  took  farewell  of  all  the  haggard  horde : 

Terrible,  cleansing,  driving  all  before  him, 
Came  revelation,  sudden  as  a  sword. 

Then,  only  then,  the  substance  for  the  shadow ! 

Then  the  sealed  pages  silently  unfold : 
Love's  little  snarings,  pitiful  and  futile : 

Husks,  tasteless  Dead  Sea  Fruit  ...  to  have  and  hold. 

What  if  she  serve  him  still  to  outward  seeming 

When  faring  far  in  rapturous  release? 
Haran's  torrid  plain  .  .  .  but  her  feet  were  mounting 

High,  ever  higher  on  the  hills  of  peace. 

Day,  warm  and  golden,  and  the  false  dawn  faded : 
Let  his  name  be  Judah;  a  faith  restored: 

Hope's  feeble  candle  drenched  in  fullest  sunshine  — 
"  Lo,  it  is  finished!  /  will  praise  the  Lord! " 


RONDEL 

Amalfi 

Dear,  dim  town  in  the  dawn-light  gleaming, 

Brooding  over  the  still,  blue  bay, 

Dwells  your  heart  in  a  long  dead  day? 

Your  proud  past  are  you  always  dreaming? 

When  Crusaders  with  banners  streaming 

Gathered  here  for  the  Holy  Fray? 

Dear,  dim  town  in  the  dawn-light  gleaming, 

Brooding  over  the  still,  blue  bay, 

Then  with  life  you  were  rich  and  teeming.  . 

Idlers,  now,  on  your  winding  way.  .  .  . 

Do  you  live  in  your  yesterday? 

Scorn  to-day  with  its  sordid  scheming, 

Dear,  dim  town  in  the  dawn-light  gleaming  ? 


42 


REVELATION 

He  had  not  made  the  team.     The  ultimate  moment  — 
Last  practice  for  the  big  game,  his  senior  year  - 
Had  come  and  gone  again  with  dizzying  swiftness. 
It  was  all  over  now,  and  the  sudden  cheer 
That  rose  and  swelled  to  greet  the  elect  eleven 
Sounded  his  bitter  failure  on  his  ear. 

He  had  not  made  the  team.     He  was  graduating: 

The  last  grim  chance  was  gone  and  the  last  hope  fled ; 

The  final  printed  list  tacked  up  in  the  quarters ; 

A  girl  in  the  bleachers  turned  away  her  head. 

He  knew  that  she  was  trying  to  keep  from  crying; 

Under  his  tan  there  burned  a  painful  red. 

He  had  not  made  the  team.     The  family  waiting 
His  wire,  up  State ;  the  little  old  loyal  town 
That  had  looked  to  him  year  by  year  to  make  it  famous, 
And  laureled  him  each  time  home  with  fresh  renown ; 
The  men  from  the  house  there,  tense,  breathlessly  watch 
ing, 
And,  after  all,  once  more,  he  'd  thrown  them  down. 

He  had  not  made  the  team,  after  years  of  striving ; 
After  all  he  had  paid  to  try,  and  held  it  cheap, — 
The  sweat  and  blood  and  strain  and  iron  endurance, — 
And  the  harassed  nights,  too  aching-tired  to  sleep ; 

43 


44  REVELATION 

The  limp  that  perhaps  he  might  be  cured  of  some  day ; 
The  ugly  scar  that  he  would  always  keep. 

He  had  not  made  the  team.     He  watched  from  the  side 
lines, 

Two  days  later,  a  part  of  a  sad  patrol, 
Battered  and  bruised  in  his  crouched  blanketed  body, 
Sick  and  sore  to  his  depths  and  aloof  in  dole, 
Until  he  saw  the  enemy's  swift  advancing 
Sweeping  his  team-mates  backward.     Then  from  his  soul 
Was  cleansed  the  sense  of  self  and  the  sting  of  failure, 
And  he  was  one  of  a  pulsing,  straining  whole, 
Bracing  to  stem  the  tide  of  the  on-flung  bodies, 
Helping  to  halt  that  steady,  relentless  roll ; 
Then  he  was  part  of  a  fighting,  frenzied  unit 
Forcing  them  back  and  back  and  back  from  the  goal. 
There  on  the  side-lines  came  the  thought  like  a  whip- 
crack 
As  his  team  rallied  and  rose  and  took  control : 

He  had  not  made  the  team,  but  for  four  long  seasons, 
Each  of  ten  grinding  n'eeks,  he  had  given  the  flower, 
The  essence,  and  strength  of  body,  brain,  and  spirit, 
He  and  his  kind  —  the  second  team  —  till  the  power 
To  cope  with  opposition  and  to  surmount  it 
Into  the  team  was  driven  against  this  hour! 

What  did  it  matter  who  held  onto  the  leather, 
He  or  another  ?     What  was  a  four-years'  dream  ? 
Out  of  his  heart  the  shame  and  rancor  lifted ; 
There  burst  from  his  throat  a  hoarse,  exultant  scream. 
Not  in  the  fight,  but  part  of  it,  he  was  winning ! 
This  was  his  victory :  he  had  made  the  team ! 


IN  THE  COURT  OF  ABUNDANCE 

Slipping  behind  a  pillar,  he  eluded  them,—- 

His  keen-eyed  sister  of  the  strident  tone, 

Heading  her  straggling  charges  for  the  Zone. 

(How  like  an  anxious  hen  she  led  and  brooded  them, 

Her  flock,  her  own ! 

Fiercely  maternal,  she  could  fight  and  feel  for  them, 

Now  scolding  shrilly,  jerking  on  their  coats, 

Now  tucking  mufflers  round  their  meager  throats, 

Unloved,  unlovely,  in  her  loving  zeal  for  them!) 

He  was  alone ! 

Since  first  the  gates  were  opened,  she  had  harried  him, 

Pushing  and  planning  in  her  forceful  way. 

(They  were  to  make  the  most  of  this  first  day!) 

Past  miles  of  sights  and  sounds  her  vim  had  carried  him, 

Amazed,  confused. 

Past  friezes  quivering  in  the  burnished  weather, 

Small,  squealing  engines,  pea-nuts,  huge  machines, 

Peaches  in  jars,  and  grain  done  into  scenes : 

His  feet  shrieked  dumbly  in  their  patent  leather : 

He  felt  misused. 

It  was  so  different  from  his  ardent  hope  of  it 

All  thro'  the  months  that  he  had  skimped  and  saved, 

Thro'  all  the  melting  journey  he  had  braved. 

45 


46  IN  THE  COURT  OF  ABUNDANCE 

To  sign  and  symbol,  to  the  breadth  and  scope  of  it 

He  had  no  key. 

It  dwarfed  and  scared  him.     Toil  and  care  were  part  of 

him 

At  the  dull  counter  where  he  spent  his  days. 
This  beauty  swam  before  him  in  a  maze. 
He  limped  away.     He  turned  ...  joy  filled  the  heart  of 

him, 
And  jublilee. 

Grace  of  a  heedless  turning, 
Here  he  has  found  his  hour : 
Mystical  incense  burning  .  .  . 
Rise  of  the  rhythmic  tower.  .  .  . 
The  sight  of  it  fires  and  thrills  him; 
The  hush  of  it  soothes  and  stills  him ; 
The  Court  of  Abundance  fills  him  .  .  . 
Plenty  and  peace  and  power. 

Grace  of  heedless  turning, 
Here  he  has  reached  his  goal. 
This  was  his  poignant  yearning 
Where  he  may  loose  his  soul, 
And  whether  for  truth  or  seeming, 
For  waking  or  kindly  dreaming, 
Beguiling  or  full  redeeming, 
Here  he  is  healed  and  whole. 

This  is  his  perfect  hour.     It  can  not  stay ; 
Yet  shall  he  bear  the  balm  of  it  away. 
Relentless  ticket !     He  must  go  once  more 
Back  to  Gents'  Furnishings  in  Arnold's  Store ! 


IN  THE  COURT  OF  ABUNDANCE  47 

Even  to-morrow  he  must  go  again 

Back  with  his  sister  to  the  haunts  of  men 

To  push  and  crowd  and  sight-see  all  the  time, — 

To  strain  the  last  mean  penny  from  a  dime ; 

Small,  sticky  fingers  and  shrill,  petty  strife  .  .  . 

Back  to  that  little  snarled  and  tangled  life.  .  .  . 

But  here  in  a  strange,  stern  summer, 
Silent,  aloof,  alone, 
Safe  in  the  Court  of  Abundance 
He  has  embraced  his  own. 
Life  in  a  rosy  fountain, 
Eerie  and  wraith-like,  frail, 
Glows  like  a  phantom  opal 
Under  the  fog's  faint  veil, 
Dowering  him  with  dominion, 
Beauty  and  power  and  might, 
For  he  is  now  The  Caliph, 
Sallying  forth  in  the  night. 


WHILE  THE  TRAIN  WAITS 

(The  Blind  Minstrel  Sings:) 

Long  ago,  in  old  Morelos,  dwelt  a  maid  of  far  renown ; 
Eyes  like  stars  in  cloudy  heavens;  like  the  raven's  wing, 

her  crown. 
Every  night  beneath  her  window  many  a  gallant  song  was 

sung, 
Lords  and  nobles,  mighty  warriors,  grave  and  gay,  and 

old  and  young. 
"  Oh,  my  Lady,  oh,  my  Lady,  humbly  do  we  sue  for 

grace ! 
For  the  sound  of  your  sweet  speaking,  for  the  vision  of 

your  face !  " 

(He  Speaks  to  his  Grandchild:) 

"Little  frog,  thou  art  m\  eye-sight, — 
There  are  many  Gringoes,  yes? 
Have  no  fear!     They  will  not  harm  thee! 
Let  them  see  thy  ragged  dress!  " 

(He  Sings:) 

Knightly  suitor,  sage  and  soldier,  steadily  she  said  them 

nay. 

Vast  the  patience  of  their  pleading;  still  she  turned  her 
head  away; 

48 


WHILE  THE  TRAIN  WAITS  49 

But  when  all  the  prayers  were  uttered  and  the  long  fare 
wells  were  done, 

Came  another  to  her  window  then  —  the  gardener's  hand 
some  son. 
"  Oh,  my  Lady,  oh,  my  Lady,  blest  beyond  belief  is 

this, 

That  I  have  your  face  to  gaze  on  and  your  finger  tips 
to  kiss ! " 


(He  Speaks) 

"Nay,  do  not  heed  the  lady's  smile! 
Men  have  shame  to  say  thee  nay. 
The  women  call  thee  pretty  names, — 
Men  say  little,  but  they  pay !  " 

(He  Sings:) 

Vain  their  ardent  supplications  to  the  snow-cold  maid 

above. 
What  are  name  and  fame  and  fortune  to  the  leveler  of 

love? 
Once,  upon  a  silver  midnight,  crept  the  lady  down  the 

stair, 
Softly  through  the  sleeping  Palace  to  her  lover  waiting  - 

(He  Speaks:) 

"Ah,  the  train  goes  on,  Josita! 
See,  I  spit  upon  the  rail! 
Count  their  evil-smelling  money  — 
Pigs  of  Gringoes,  fat  and  pale! 


50  WHILE  THE  TRAIN  WAITS 

Holy  Mother,  what  a  harvest! 
What  a  feast  day  this  shall  be! 
—  There  's  the  rent  .  .  .  and  my  tobacco 
And  a  sugar-plum  for  thee!  " 


SYMPHONY  PATHETIQUE 

That  woman  with  the  somber  eyes 
Had  come  to  write  and  criticize, 
But  see  her  now  with  ardent  face 
Transfigured  for  a  little  space, 
Leaning  far  forward  in  her  seat, 
Wrapt  in  the  rhythm  and  the  beat  — 
The  volume  and  the  surge  of  it, 
The  lovely  lilt  and  swell  of  it ; 
The  vigor  and  the  urge  of  it ; 
The  rapture  .  .  .  and  the  knell  of  it; 
The  rose  and  gold,  the  warmth  and  glow, 
The  mauve  and  gray,  the  ice  and  snow. 
Trembling,  swaying, 
Pleading,  praying, 
Spurning,  lashing, 
Climbing,  crashing  — 

Titanic  rage  .  .  .  and  tenderness. 
To  hurt,  to  heal ;  to  curse,  to  bless. 
And  now  the  year  's  at  June  again, 
And  now  the  day  's  at  noon  again ! 

She  settles  back,  and  with  a  sigh 
She  puts  her  stubby  pencil  by. 
She  will  not  try  to  shape  and  frame, 
To  pack  sensations  in  a  name, — 
To  harness  up  the  cyclone's  march ; 
To  reinforce  the  rainbow's  arch; 
Si 


52  SYMPHONY  PATHETIQUE 

Stab  Pegasus  with  iron  spur: 
Use  symbols  for  a  tool 
To  chisel  to  a  granite  word 
The  subtleties  she  felt  and  heard, 
Nor  wind  a  web  of  gossamer 
Upon  a  wooden  spool. 


THE  SUBWAY 

I 

Crowds  pour  down  from  the  street  and  out  of  the  locals, 
A  turbulent,  tossing,  rushing,  surging  stream, 
Choked  and  dammed  on  the  narrow,  congested  platform 
Into  a  seething,  eddying,  heaving  pool ; 
Crowds  pour  down  from  the  street  and  out  of  the  locals, 
And  up  the  stairs  and  down  and  from  the  express, 
Wriggling,  squeezing,  squirming,  panting  and  breathless, 
They  push  and  pull  and  jostle  and  jam  and  swarm : 
The  scuffle  of  feet,  the  solid  impact  of  bodies, 
The  sharp  staccato  of  swiftly  slamming  doors : 
Over  and  over  again  the  raucous  order 
Harsh  from  the  throat  of  the  melting,  grimy  guard  — 
"Watch-step  —  watch-step  —  watch-step  --  watch-step- 
step-lively  !  " — 

Like  a  neighbor's  cracked,  unceasing  gramophone. 
He  wedges  and  fits  and  packs  with  swift  precision, 
Shoves  and  shoulders  and  crams  and  crushes  them  in, 
And  slides  the  door  on  the  heaving,  struggling  bodies, 
Cutting  away  the  hapless,  overflowing, 
As  a  pastry  cook  trims  off  the  edge  of  a  pie. 
Crowds  pour  down  from  the  street  and  out  of  the  locals, 
They  push  and  pull  and  jostle  and  jam  and  swarm, 
Tired  people  with  fretful  pallid  faces, 
Fighting  their  way  in  silence,  tense  and  grim, 

53 


54  THE  SUBWAY 

Obsessed,  intent,  unheeding,  dogged  and  joyless,- 
A  fierce  and  virulent  form  of  the  verb  To  Go !  — 
Pushing,  fighting,  jamming  — 

On  the  coast  of  Maine 
Little  hollow  houses 
Are  graying  in  the  rain 
Ghostly  in  the  moonlight, 
Bleaching  in  the  sun; 
Pitiful  with  emptiness, 
For  their  day  is  done. 


II 

The  platform,  now  remembered,  seems  a  haven, — 

Compared  with  the  coach,  a  cool,  and  spacious  place. 

The  breathless,  throbbing  heat  is  horrifying; 

The  heat  .  .  .  the  heat  .  .  .  the  wilting,  relentless  heat. 

They  sit  or  stand,  relaxed  and  limp,  enduring 

The  torrid  hyphen  that  bridges  work  and  home : 

Some  irate  and  some  in  a  pallid  patience, 

Pale  people  and  people  shining  and  red. 

There  is  a  small  dark  girl  in  a  mussy  middy, — 

A  middy  blouse  that  makes  you  think  of  the  sea  — 

The  tumbling  sea  with  crisping  crests  of  foam  — 

Salt,  stinging  spray  and  bravely  shining  brass 

And  gay,  striped  awnings  —  suppers  on  the  deck  — 

But  she  had  worn  it  to  work  for  many  days, 

And  she  looks  as  if  she  never  had  seen  the  sea. 

There  are  dull-eyed  girls  whose  gallant  rouge  and  powder 

Are  cut  by  crooked  water-ways  of  sweat. 


THE  SUBWAY  55 

The  stifling,  choking  heat  is  horrifying; 

The  heat  .  .  .  the  heat  .  .  .  the  merciless,  melting  heat. 

A  standing  woman  is  gasping  and  going  to  faint ; 

She  lets  the  handle  go  and  sags  inertly, 

But  she  is  n't  going  to  fall ;  there  is  n't  room, 

For  she  is  glued  between  a  tipsy  sailor 

And  a  sallow,  shaking  wraith  with  a  bandaged  head. 

The  air  is  stale  and  dead  and  hotter  .  .  .  hotter.  .  .  . 

Breathing  is  baffled  by  fluffy  puffs  of  heat 

From  the  crushed  and  steaming  mass  of  human  cattle, 

Wedged  in,  body  to  body  and  breath  to  breath. 

Stifling,  gasping,  reeking  - 

Westward,  cool  and  dry, 
Miles  and  miles  of  prairie 
Roll  up  against  the  sky; 
Sun-cured  and  radiant, 
Redolent  and  keen, 
Wide  and  free  beyond  the  gaze, 
Wind-swept  and  clean. 


Ill 

Rattle  and  crash  and  roar  of  the  rapid  transit, 

Mad  modern  music,  built  on  the  theme  of  speed ; 

Single  noises  and  noises  welded  together, 

With  one  out-standing  in  discord,  over  all, 

Until  in  the  jaded  brains  it  hums  and  pierces 

Like  the  sly,  burrowing  buzz  of  the  dentist's  drill. 

There   are   glaring   lights   which   make   the   noise   seem 

louder, — 
The  lurid  glow  of  a  fierce  electric  noon: 


56  THE  SUBWAY 

There  are  signs  which  draw  the  tired  eyes  up  like  mag 
nets, 

Strident  signs  which  are  noises  visualized ; 
You  cannot  evade  or  dodge  them, —  loud,  insistent, 
Insolent  signs,  determined  to  be  read. 
They  scream  of  somebody's  soup  and  soap  and  garters, 
Somebody's  pajamas  and  tea  and  cigarettes, 
And  somebody's  gloves  and  gum  and  flour  and  tonic, 
Somebody's  whisky  and  collars  and  breakfast  food. 
The  eyes  that  read  must  run  from  color  to  color, 
Stabbed  and  prodded  with  yellow  and  rasping  red 
Until  with  the  jolt  and  jar  of  the  frantic  going 
Is  mingled  the  crash  of  unrelated  tones. 
There  are  reds  and  blues  and  yellows  that  are  noises 
And  noises  that  are  yellow  and  blue  and  red ; 
The  senses  of  sight  and  sound  are  nagged  and  goaded, 
Noise  in  the  eyes  as  harsh  as  noise  in  the  ears ; 
The  rushing  roar  of  the  crazy  speed  enhances 
The  garishness  of  the  bright  and  glaring  gloom. 

Jolting,  rasping,  screeching  — 

Over  plain  and  hill 
There  is  sanctuary, 
Inviolate  and  still; 
There  is  hush  and  healing ; 
Dimly  green,  afar, 
Stand  the  forest  places, 
Silent  as  a  star. 


VENETIAN  BOATS 

On   looking  at   Benjamin  C.    Brown's   Aquatint. 

"  Venetian  Boats  — 

I  had  forgotten  Venice ! 

I  had  stopped  remembering  it  was  there. 

Blood  and  flame  is  what  I  have  been  thinking 
Over  there; 
Flame  and  blood ; 

Famine,  and  the  trenches,  and  the  mud, 
Soul-destroying  mud ; 
(Always  they  are  telling  of  the  mud!) 
Dreadful,  mended  faces  I  Ve  been  thinking; 
Ghoulish  cripples.  .  .  . 
Now  I  stare 

At  the  placid  pattern  of  the  ripples. 
It  is  there! 

With  a  rush  of  memory  returning 
Now  I  can  remember 
And  I  know 

What  seems  here  a  gentle,  sallow  silence 
Is  a  quivering  shimmer 
And  a  glow, 
Opalescent, 
Silver, 
Iridescent, 

Colored  like  an  abalone  shell. 
57 


58  VENETIAN  BOATS 

Veronese, 
Giorgione, 
Titian, 

Tiepolo,  this  is  where  they  dwell ! 
I  shall  hold  remembrance  fast  in  future, 
Clinging  to  the  comfort  I  have  caught; 
It  shall  be  a  secret  sanctuary 
For  my  thought. 

Sails  of  cream  and  crimson  in  the  sunset, 
Crumbling  palaces  of  pinky  pearl; 
Lantern  lights ; 

Dawns  of  gauze  and  days  of  silk  and  amber ; 
Velvet  nights: 

Sleepy  slipping  .  .  .  slapping  ...  of  the  water, 
And  my  little  cake-shop's  silly  show ! 

Tintoretto's  shy  child-Virgin  in  the  Temple, 
Step  by  step  ascending  the  great  stair, 
And  a  certain  very  grave  young  angel 
In  a  whispering  corner  that  I  know.  .  .  . 
"  Venetian  Boats  "— 
I  had  forgotten  Venice ! 

I  had  stopped  remembering  it  was  there. 


BARBARA 

Barbara,  child,  with  luminous  face, 
If  you  had  lived  in  the  daintier  days 
With  your  fine,  frank  ladyhood  look  of  race, 
In  your  decorous  cap  and  sober  grace, 
Delicate  bards  would  have  penned  your  praise, 

Tenderly  sung  with  a  sheltering  smile 

Of  your  "  starry  gaze  "  and  your  "  brow  of  snow  " 

And  prayed  there  should  never  a  breath  defile 

From  a  world  without  that  is  sad  and  vile ; 

"  Pure  "  and  "  secure  "  would  have  rhymed,  I  know. 

But,  Barbara,  this  is  a  sterner  age. 

We  shall  ask  for  your  hands,  to  help  and  heal ; 

We  shall  call  you  soon  in  the  war  we  wage ; 

We  shall  want  your  tears  and  your  high  white  rage ; 

Your  slim,  strong  shoulder  against  the  wheel. 

They  'd  have  set  your  beauty  within  a  bower, 
But  we  cannot  spare  you.     We  need  you  so  ! 
You  are  vital  force ;  you  are  not  a  flower ! 
You  are  challenge  and  promise ;  peace  and  power  — 
Your  starry  gaze  and  your  brow  of  snow  ! 


59 


CITY-BOUND 

They  are  digging  a  ditch  in  the  street. 

One  of  the  laborers  sings. 

It  is  a  song  in  a  southern  tongue 

And  it  lifts  and  lilts  and  swings. 

The  pavement  stubbornly  yields; 

The  rhythm  quickens  and  thrills; 

Suddenly  I  am  away,  away, 

In  the  high  Sicilian  hills, 

Afoot  on  a  rising  road 

That  mounts  like  a  spiral  stair, 

Alone  in  a  warm  young  world, 

Afloat  in  cerulean  air. 

I  am  afoot  and  alone, 

Climbing  higher  and  higher; 

The  shade  is  a  silver  stream, 

The  sun  is  a  golden  fire. 

The  sky  blue  line  of  the  sea 

And  the  sea  blue  sky  line  meet : 

I  am  afoot  and  alone ;  alive!  — 

They  are  digging  a  ditch  in  the  street. 


60 


SARAH  CLEGHORN 

The  minor  music  of  the  humdrum  world : 

She  sang  the  Maiden  Ladyhood  to  fame 

In  words  as  quaintly  sturdy  as  her  name; 

Beneath  her  pen  the  Sliding  River  purled ; 

Thro'  reel  and  rigadoon  sprigged  flounces  whirled; 

While  the  small  patient  played  a  gallant  game 

"  Saint  R.  L.  S."  fanned  up  the  feeble  flame; 

A  little  lame  step-daughter's  hair  was  curled. 

Yet  she  can  rouse  and  rend  us  if  she  will, 
Reveal  and  scorn  us  in  a  scathing  tone! 
"  Poltroon  "  is  bracing  in  its  tonic  gall. 
Greatly  endowed  for  the  great  themes,  and  still 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  the  meek,  the  near  and  known ; 
The  faithful,  tender  minstrel  of  the  small ! 


61 


A  MOUNTAIN  MUMMER 

(Written  for  William   Stanley   Braithwaite's   Shakespeare   Page 
in  the  Boston  Transcript.} 

'Lijah  was  more  than  thirty  when  the  road 

Linked  his  high  mountain  cabin  with  the  school, 

A  quaint  child-giant,  somber  eyed  and  cool. 

Grave,  wondering,  but  unashamed,  he  strode 

Across  the  threshold,  and  to  word  and  rule 

Bent  thirsting,  desert  traveler  to  pool, 

Drinking  great  dizzy  draughts,  swallowing  hard 

Through  alphabets,  past  primers,  to  the  Bard ; 

Lifting  at  last  a  happy  head  that  whirled, 

Lifting  a  heart  that  suffered  a  sea-change, 

Lifting  a  kindled  vision  rich  and  strange, — 

"  How   beauteous   mankind   is !     Oh,  brave  new   world ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here !  " 

Then  with  a  gracious  haste,  not  suddenly, 
But  softly,  like  the  process  of  the  year, 
Came  glorious  summer  through  this  wizardry 
On  the  bleak  winter  of  his  discontent. 
Feuds  found  him  gentle ;  peace  was  permanent. 
Deftly  he  learned  to  dramatize  his  days 
In  the  enchanted  country  of  his  brain, 
To  walk  rechristened  in  familiar  ways, — 
The  Moor,  Macbeth,  the  Melancholy  Dane, 
Ill-used  old  Lear  abroad  in  wind  and  rain ; 

62 


A  MOUNTAIN  MUMMER  63 

To  muse  in  warmth  and  melody  until 

Drab  and  unlovely  commonplaces  wore 

The  look  of  Arden  or  of  Elsinore, 

And  his  harsh  mountain  top,  forbidding,  hoar, 

Was  softened  to  a  heaven-kissing  hill. 

A  little  sallow  sister,  wistful-eyed 

And  wistful  witted,  when  mischance  befell, 

Found  solace  and  asylum  at  his  side 

And  herb  o'  grace  and  balm  instead  of  rue, 

For  "  one  who  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well." 

When  his  own  hour  had  come,  he  went  to  woo 

The  daughter  of  his  family's  ancient  foe, 

Uplifted  in  his  hopelessness,  elate, 

Romeo,  revelling  in  moonlit  woe, — 

"My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate!" 

A  gaunt,  red-wristed  creature,  stooped  and  shy, 

Sullen,  and  difficult  to  glorify, 

Abashed  before  his  eloquence,  and  yet 

Transmuted  by  the  Avon  alchemy 

Into  the  honey-hearted  Juliet, 

And  a  black  boulder  was  her  balcony 

Where  the  white  fervor  of  his  rapture  flamed. 

Then,  as  the  seasons  faded,  she  was  named, 

As  his  mood  called  for  misery  or  bliss, 

Katharine,  Portia,  Constance,  Beatrice, 

Lioness,  butterfly,  or  mourning  dove ; 

Full  many  ladies  and  of  many  minds, 

But  though  she  shriveled  with  each  added  year, 

Sagged,  and  grew  silenter  and  still  more  sere, 

She  never  changed  for  him.     "  Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds." 


64  A  MOUNTAIN  MUMMER 

Always  he  planned,  when  the  last  curtain  fell, 

That  he  would  make  his  Exit  handsomely 

And  cheerily, — "  not  so  deep  as  a  well!  " 

Swiftly  and  lustily  he  longed  to  go, 

A  gallant  humor  in  his  tragedy, 

But  it  was  something  difficult  and  slow.  .  .  . 

A  long-drawn,  unrelenting  cruelty. 

Then  was  it  given  to  his  soul  to  know 

Alarums  and  excursions,  lest  he  yield, — 

Play  craven  in  his  own  brave  theater. 

Day  dragging  day,  he  met  it  jauntily, 

With  every  darting  pain  a  rapier, 

And  every  battled  breath  a  Bosworth  Field, 

Upstanding  and  unconquered,  cap-a-pie, — 

"A  horse!    A  horse!"     Again?     ''Lay  on,  Mac  duff, 

And  damrid  be  him  that  first  cries  'Hold,  enough! 

Retreating  inch  by  inch,  too  staunch  for  flight, 

Proud  to  delay,  since  that  meant  mastery, 

Longing,  forespent,  to  bid  the  world  Good-night. 

He  bade  his  spirit  with  a  hard-wrung  smile, 

"Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile!" 


CHERRY  WAY 

Here,  before  the  better  streets  begin, 

Grimy  backs  of  buildings  wall  it  in, 

Strident  with  the  station's  endless  din, 

And  a  yoke 

Of  dun  smoke 

Makes  its  title  a  dull  joke. 

Time  was,  once,  long  fled,  when  this  slim  street 

Was  all  color-tremulous  and  sweet; 

When  the  Sygne-Poste  had  a  right  to  say 

"  Cherrie  Waye," 

But  to-day 

It  is  palely  bleak  and  gray. 

Sometimes,  when  the  moon  is  riding  high, 

Whitely,  in  a  cold  and  cobalt  sky, 

From  beneath  their  ancient  graves  close  by, 

Shadowed  deep, 

Ladies  creep 

Here  to  wring  their  hands  and  weep ; 

Holding  up  the  flounced  and  flowered  skirt 
From  the  sordid  ugliness  and  dirt, 
With  faint  sighs  and  gesturings  of  hurt, 
As  to  say  — 
"  Lack-a-day ! 

Can  thys  be  Cure  Cherrie  Waye?" 
65 


BONDAGE 

By  river  banks  in  Babylon  we  mourned,  remembering; 
We  hanged  our  harps  on  willow  trees,  but  herein  lay  the 

sting  — 

We  would  have  wept  Jerusalem  till  all  the  heathen  earth 
Grew  green,  but  they  that  wasted  us  required  of  us  mirth, 
And  then  indeed  the  nights  were  black,  the  leaden  days 

were  long, 
For  they  that  carried  us  captive  required  of  us  a  song. 

And  those  of  us  in  bondage  still,  sigh  that  we  may  not 

know 

The  solace  of  our  suffering,  the  luxury  of  woe ; 
When  we  would  water  with  our  tears  the  garden  of  our 

grief 

We  hate  the  cheer  they  hold  us  to ;  rebel  against  relief. 
We  fear,  in  fiercest  loyalty,  to  do  our  sorrow  wrong, 
For  they  that  carried  us  captive  required  of  us  a  song. 


66 


DELIVERANCE 

Set  in  September's  oven  the  city  bakes, 

Spilling  its  frowsy  odors  on  the  air. 

The  child  droops,  wilting,  and  her  brooding  stare 

Goes  further  than  the  push-cart's  speckled  cakes. 

The  little  mat  of  shadow  that  she  makes 

Sketches  a  pattern  on  the  pavement  there. 

"  To  play''  they  said,  " in  gardens  green  and  fair.  . 

She  visions  with  intensity  that  aches. 

Yet  they  shall  come  for  her !     Down  her  dull  street 
Awake,  aware  at  last,  they  come,  they  speed, 
Eager,  aroused,  on  beautiful  swift  feet, 
And  in  her  day  and  season  she  shall  see 
Through  the  vast  lump  of  ignorance  and  greed 
A  little  leaven  working  mightily ! 


POST-GRADUATE 

If  she  had  lived  a  little  while  ago 
She  would  be  wearing  tranquil  caps  of  lace ; 
Withdrawing  gently  to  her  quiet  place, 
Sighing,  remotely,  at  the  world's  drab  woe. 
To-day,  she  fronts  it  squarely  as  her  foe, 
Not  from  the  inglenook  but  face  to  face, 
Marching  to  meet  it,  stoutly  keeping  pace, 
Armored  in  wisdom,  strong  to  overthrow. 

This  is  the  work  she  always  understood : 

The  world  in  terms  of  home.     Set  free  to  flower 

(Unhindered  now,  her  own  brood  long  a'wing) 

In  broader,  all-embracing  motherhood: 

Calm  with  the  years  and  ardent  with  the  hour, — 

Indian  Summer  with  the  urge  of  Spring. 


68 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 


Copyright,  All  Dramatic  and 
MoTinf  Picture  Rights  Reserved 


CHARACTERS 

YioNG-YuENG,  "  LIVE  FOREVER,"  a  Merchant. 
SAN-CHI,  "  BEAUTIFUL  BIRD,"  his  blind  son. 
Woo-Liu-MAi,  "  SWEET  SMELLING  FLOWER,"  his  second 

wife. 
A  WHITE  DEVIL,  a  New  Year's  reveler. 

SCENE  —  "  China  Town,"  San  Francisco. 
TIME —  An  Evening  of  the  Chinese  New  Year. 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

SETTING:  Living-room  in  the  dwelling  of  YIONG-YUENG, 
in  Dupont  Street,  San  Francisco's  Chinese  quarter. 

It  is  dimly  lighted,  its  bare  ugliness  veiled  in  soft  shadow. 

There  is  a  little  shrine  at  one  side,  a  clear,  pale  light  above 
it  revealing  a  grotesque  Joss,  prayer  sticks  and  prayer 
papers  beneath  it,  and  a  dull  bine  pot  of  incense,  smudg 
ing  slovdy,  with  a  pungent  and  penetrating  smell. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  is  a  small  toilette  stand  with 
beauty  bo.r  and  mirror,  a  lantern  above  it. 

Near  the  center  is  a  black  table  on  which  are  a  curious 
pipe,  a  frame  of  embroidery,  and  the  lilies  of  the 
Chinese  New  Year  in  a  quaint  dish.  They  stand  oddly 
aloof  and  chaste  in  their  cool,  prim  purity.  A  globe 
of  gold-fish. 

Dimly  seen  doors  Left  and  Right, —  Right  leads  to  the 
hall,  thence  to  the  street,  and  Left  to  the  cooking  and 
sleeping  rooms. 

A  single  window,  heavily  barred,  up  stage  center,  gives 
on  a  narrow  balcony  with  iron  railing.  Just  outside 
the  windo'W  hangs  a  huge  lantern,  strident  with  color, 
swaying  gently  in  the  wind. 

[The  stage  is  empty  at  the  rise  of  the  curtain:  From  the 
gambling-house  next  door  conies  the  sound,  from  time 


72  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

to  time,  all  through  the  play,  of  the  slamming  of  a 
heavy  door,  and  the  long,  sing-song  cry  of  the  look-out. 
From  the  theater  across  the  street  there  filters  now  and 
then  a  wailing  Chinese  melody.  Sometimes  the  music 
is  thin  and  plaintive  on  the  strings,  then  crashing  and 
discordant  with  brassy  cymbals  and  flat-toned  wooden 
drums.] 

[The  door  at  the  Right  is  -flung  open.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Comes  in  swiftly,  leading  the  blind  boy.  She  wears 
the  rough  garb  of  a  cooley  serving  woman,  the 
hood  pulled  well  over  her  face.  She  closes  the 
door  and  stands  ivith  her  hands  clutched  together 
on  her  breast,  breathless  and  half  crying.] 
San-Chi,  I  faint  and  perish  of  my  fright ! 

SAN-CHI 

[Groping  back  toward  the  door.] 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  will  go  down  again! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Hastily  slipping  off  the  outer  garment.] 
Beautiful  Bird,  the  demons  have  your  wits ! 
Oh,  I  was  mad  to  take  you  out  to-night 
When  New  Year's  revelers  fill  up  the  street 
And  all  the  Quarter  swarms  with  pushing  crowds ! 
Gaping  White  Devils  jostled  us!     Your  sire, 
My  August  Husband,  might  have  seen  us  there ! 
Then,  all  the  gods  defend  me  from  his  wrath ! 

[She  flings  the  coarse  outer  dress  back  into  the  deeper 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  73 

shadows  and  is  revealed  in  the  exquisite  costume 
of  a  high  class  Chinese  woman.] 

SAN-CHI 

[Angrily,  groping  for  her.] 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  will  go  out,  I  say! 
Quick !     I  will  beat  you !     Take  me  down  again  ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Meekly,  as  she  kneels  before  the  dressing  stand,  put 
ting  carmine  on  her  lips  and  cheeks  and  finger 
nails.] 

Sweet  Step-son,  you  will  beat  me,  either  way ! 
Because  I  was  born  woman,  and  you  blind, 
I  must  endure  the  rigor  of  your  rage, 
But  still  I  dare  not  yield  to  you  in  this. 

SAN-CHI 

[Spoiled,  sullen,  helpless,  richly  clad  in  gay  green  and 
purple,  suddenly  sits  down  on  the  floor  and  begins 
to  cry.] 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  hate  you  !     Take  me  out ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Kicking  off  the  clumsy  servant's  shoes  and  putting 

on  her  own  small  and  dainty  slippers.] 
San-Chi,  to-morrow,  truly,  you  shall  go! 

SAN-CHI 
[Sullenly.] 

To-night ! 


74  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Beautiful  Bird,  I  do  not  dare ! 
You  know  your  August  Father  is  abroad, — 
What  if  he  saw  us  —  if  he  knew  my  sin  ?  — 
How,   for  a  year,   I  ve  wantonly  transgressed, 
Donned  a  rough  servant  garb  and  led  you  forth 
Into  the  brazen  streets  by  night  and  day, 
Boldly,  into  the  vulgar,  public  streets, 
Like  Big  Foot  Women,  to  be  eyes  for  you ! 

[Overcome  with  the  thought  of  her  sin,  she  pros 
trates  herself  before  the  shrine,  praying  fervently.] 
Merciful  Goddess  with  ears  in  your  heart ! 
Save  and  defend  me  !     He  never  must  know  ! 
With  his  own  hands  would  he  slay  me ! 

[Wailing.] 
Ai !     Ai ! 

SAN-CHI 

[Delightedly,] 

Woo-Liu-Mai !     I  should  like  that !     Tell  him  !     Quick  ! 

Soul-of-a-toad,  I  say  that  he  must  know ! 

Then  I  shall  hear  him  slay  you  .  .  .  hear  you  scream ! 

[Interestedly.] 

How  will  he  do  it?     Will  he  sti angle  you? 
Will  he  slit  up  your  throat  with  his  sharp  knife? 
Or  bring  you  poison  from  his  chemist's  shop.  .  .  . 
Poison  to  make  you  writhe  and  jerk  and  moan? 

[Excitedly.] 

Step-mother,  I  will  tell  him,  I,  myself ! 
Oh,  when  will  he  be  home  ?     I  cannot  wait ! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  75 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Meekly.] 

San-Chi,  your  word  is  law  !     But  —  when  I  'm  dead, 
Who,  of  the  living,  will  be  eyes  for  you? 
Mah  Foy,  our  stupid  servant,  or  your  sire, — 
Your  August  Sire  who  rarely  speaks  to  you? 

SAN-CHI 

[His  face  falling.] 
Alas! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Craftily.] 

Listen  ?     You  hear  ?     The  look-out  calls  — 

[The  long,  sing-song  call  is  heard.] 
To  Toy  Chung  Lung,  high  in  his  gambling  den.  .  .  . 
The  heavy  doors  are  slamming,  one  by  one, 
The  men  go  creeping  up  the  inky  stairs.  .  .  . 

[Music  sounds  from  the  theater.] 
Across  the  street  in  the  gay  theater 
Beautiful  persons  act  a  tragic  play, — 
"  The  War  that  waged  Between  Five  Provinces, 
Or  How  Kind-Hearted  Ladies  Came  to  Beg 
That  they  would  moderate  surrender's  terms !  " 
Listen  .  .  .  they  sing  of  war,  and  love,  and  hate.  .  .  . 

SAN-CHI 
[Listens  in  fascination.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Down  in  the  streets  White  Devils  push  and  peer ; 
Men  clad  in  black  like  coolies,  fat  and  dull; 


;6  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

Women  like  pea-cocks,  brazen,  bare  of  throat, — 
Great,  shining  carriages  that  glide  along 
Without  a  horse,  propelled  by  evil  power.  .  .  . 

[ Whispering,  eerily.] 

And  in  dark  alleys  where  the  hatchet  men 
Slink  in  the  shadow,  shadow-like,  and  wait, 
Bright  death  is  lurking  with  a  shining  face, 
Swift,  silent  death  that  crouches  — 

SAN-CHI 

[Eagerly.] 
Well!     Goon! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Exultantly.] 
Amiable  Step-son,  see  ?     You  need  me  still ! 

SAN-CHI 
[Grudgingly.] 

Then,  take  me  down,  and  I  will  let  you  live ! 
If  you  will  take  me  out,  I  will  not  tell ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Beguilingly.] 

San-Chi,  we  have  a  pleasure  close  at  hand ! 
How  is  it  you  forget  our  Sweetmeat  Game  ? 

SAN-CHI 

[Beginning  to  caper  and  smack  his  lips.] 
The  Sweetmeat  Game  !     I  love  the  Sweetmeat  Game ! 
Soul-of-a-toad,  make  haste!     I  cannot  wait! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  77 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Patters  to  her  dressing-stand  for  a  piece  of  pink 

sweetmeat.] 

Beautiful  Bird,  be  patient  while  I  think ! 
You  are  so  clever  and  you  hunt  so  well! 
Where  can  I  hide  it  from  your  speed  and  skill? 

[Smiling  to  herself,  she  places  it  near  the  edge  of 
the  table,  seats  herself  and  takes  up  her  embroid 
ery.} 
Ready,  oh,  Wise  One? 

SAN-CHI 
[Chuckling.} 

From  my  speed  and  skill ! 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  '11  find  it !     You  will  see ! 
But  say  the  rhyme,  Step-mother,  say  the  rhyme! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[In  a  chanting  sing-song.} 

Haste,  Mighty  Mandarin, 

Speed  thro'  the  Shadow  Land! 

Perils  attend  your  steps, 

Dangers  on  every  hand ! 
[As  he  nears  the  shrine.} 

Not  where  the  temples  stand ! 
[As  he  nears  the  globe.} 

Not  on  the  ocean's  strand ! 
[As  he  drops  to  hands  and  knees.} 

Not  where  the  lands  are  low.  .  .  . 

To  the  hill  tops  you  must  go ! 


78  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

There  is  a  mountain  high, 
Piercing  the  purple  sky  — 
[As  he  scrambles  up.] 

There  is  a  mountain  high, 
Piercing  the  purple  sky.  .  .  . 

SAN-CHI 

[Catches  the  idea,  begins  to  gurgle  delightedly,  gropes 
for  the  table;  his  fingers  close  over  the  sweetmeat 
and  he  gives  a  glad  cry,  eating  it  greedily.} 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Admiringly.'] 
Now,  who  so  swift  and  clever  as  San-Chi? 

[She  breaks  off  to  listen,  springs  up,  runs  to  door 
right.] 

My  Lord !     My  August  Husband  has  arrived  ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Entering;  a  handsome,  well  groomed  authoritative 

person.  ] 
I  greet  you,  WooLiu-Mai,  Sweet  Smelling  Flower! 

[Curiously.] 
You  never  fail  to  hear  me  when  I  come ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Dropping  her  eyes,  clasping  her  hands.] 
Sweet  Spouse,  your  foot-steps  fall  upon  the  stair 
Like  petals  in  the  garden  of  my  heart ! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  79 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Sedately  pleased.] 
Your  ears  are  keen,  Plum  Blossom.     I  will  eat ! 

WOOLIU-MAI 
[With  alacrity.} 

King  of  my  humble  service,  I  will  fly ! 
[Patters  off,  Left,} 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Scats  himself  at  the  table,  looks  at  SAN-CHI,  sighs 
heavily.} 

SAN-CHI 

[Timidly.] 
My  August  Father! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Austerely.] 

Son  of  sorrow!     Well? 

SAN-CHI 

The  streets  are  very  gay,  Celestial  Sire ! 

Here  in  the  house,  it 's  very  dull  to-night.  .  .  . 

If  you,  perhaps,  would  deign  to  take  me  out  - 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Severely.] 

The  New  Year's  gladness  is  for  happy  folk, 
Son  of  Affliction !     It  is  not  for  you. 
The  demons  stole  your  sight  .  .  .  and  half  your  wits. 


80  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

SAN-CHI 

[Whimpering.] 
May  I  not  even  when  the  Dragon  comes  — 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Harshly.] 
Peace ! 

[He  smokes  in  stolid  silence,  casting  a  look  of  aver 
sion  at  his  son.] 

SAN-CHI 

[Squatting  on  the  floor,  subsides  into  sulky  quiet.] 
[The  wailing  music  drifts  across  the  street  from  the 
theater.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Enters  from  left  with  a  tray  which  she  places  on 

the  table.] 

Celestial  Husband,  condescend  to  eat ! 
It  is  the  poor  result  of  meager  skill. 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Taking  up  his  chop-sticks.] 
What  have  you  served  to  me,  Sweet  Smelling  Flower? 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Food  of  the  joyful  New  Year,  Gentle  Lord. — 
Bladder  of  Eels,  Shark's  Fin,  a  Black  Dog's  Grease, 
A  Bird's  Nest  Pudding  and  Rice  Liquor  Wine, — 
And  leaves  of  Honeysuckle  for  your  tea ! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  81 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Graciously,  addressing  himself  to  his  supper.] 
You  have  done  well !     Serve  my  afflicted  son. 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Pattering  to  him.] 
Amiable  Step-son,  may  I  feed  you,  now? 

[Ties  on  his  bib  and  feeds  him  from  a  bowl.] 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Pausing  in  his  feast.] 

Well,  Woo-Liu-Mai,  the  New  Year's  lilies  blow : 
Now,  what  have  you  embroidered  on  your  soul 
In  golden  stitches,  for  the  year  to  come? 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Meekly,  bowing  her  sleek  head.] 
"  Mai-saou  " ;  I  mean  to  sell  my  idle  ways ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Approvingly,] 

A  goodly  motto,  but  reflect  as  well 
On  the  five  vices  common  to  your  sex :  — 
Slander  and  jealousy  and  discontent, 
And  indocility  and  silliness ! 

[Eats  again.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Obediently,  counting  them  off  on  her  fingers  and 

thumb. ,] 

Slander  and  jealousy  and  discontent, 
And  indocility  and  silliness  ! 


82  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 


YIONG-YUENG 


Eight  out  of  every  ten  in  female  minds 
Are  sore  afflicted  by  these  maladies. 
Hence,  their  inferiority  to  men ! 

WOOLIU-MAI 

Your  tongue  's  a  silver  pitcher,  and  my  ears 
Are  waiting  bowls  for  your  wise  words  to  fill ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Wiping  his  mouth  with  dignity,  picks  up  a  book,  ad 
justs  his  huge,  bone-rimmed  spectacles  and  turns 
the  pages.} 
Now  I  will  read  you  what  a  sage  has  said. 

[Reads.] 

Let  female  minds  not  yearn  for  beauty. 
Obedience  is  their  first  — 

[Pauses  and  looks  sternly  at  her.] 

WOOLIU-MAI 

[Promptly.] 

Duty ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Reads.] 

If  an  erring  female  should  arouse 
The  thunderous  anger  of  her  — 
[Stops  as  before.] 

WOOLIU-MAI 

[Dermirely.] 

Spouse ! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  83 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Reads.] 

As  female,  she  must  not  oppose  his  might, 
Argue,  or  seek  to  set  herself  aright, 
But  meekly  and  without  dissembling, 
Obey  her  Lord  with  fear  and  — 
[Pauses.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Trembling ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Pompously  concluding. ] 
When  a  female  yield  herself  in  this 
She  earns  a  hope  of  heavenly  bliss. 
If  her  spirit  never  faint  or  fail, 
Reincarnated,  she  may  be  — 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Breathlessly.] 

A  male! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Closing  the  book.} 
Do  you  drink  up  this  wisdom,  Woo-Liu-Mai? 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
My  Lord,  as  thirsting  earth  the  summer  rain ! 

[She  sees  that  the  boy  is  asleep.] 
August  Husband,  see, —  the  Beautiful  Bird 
Has  tucked  his  drowsy  head  beneath  his  wing ! 


84  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Morosely.] 
I  would  that  he  might  never  wake  again ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Gives  a  little  gasp.] 

YIONG-YUENG 

[With  cold  fury.] 

Then  might  the  gods'  black  rage  be  pacified ! 
They  will  not  give  to  me  a  second  son 
The  while  this  sightless  creature  bears  my  name ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Covers  her  face.] 

YIONG-YUENG 

[  Musing,  bitterly .  ] 

Were  it  a  girl-child  it  had  .  .  .  died  ...  at  birth. 
Alas,  Yiong-Yueng,  the  fates  have  cheated  you ! 
Could  I  but  rouse  him  to  a  sense  of  woe.  .  .  . 
To  make  him  know  that  he  \vere  better  dead. 
In  vain  I  give  him  sharpened  knives  for  toys : 
In  vain  I  leave  him  groping  on  the  roof : 
The  vengeful  gods  who  hatched  him,  brood  him  still ! 

[Sharply.] 

Have  you  obeyed  me?—      Talked  to  him  of  death?  — 
Painted  it  gaily, —  rapture  and  release  ? 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
Yes,  Live  Forever,  I  have  done  your  will. 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  85 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Hastily.] 

Always  remembering,  with  due  respect! 
A  man-child,  though  bereft  of  sight  and  sense, 
Nevertheless  is  your  superior, 
Fair  though  you  are.  .  .  . 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
But  surely,  Gentle  Lord! 

YIONG-YUENG 

Confucius  ever  lauded  modesty. 

When  pride  or  vanity  beset  your  soul 

You  may  repeat  and  ponder  on  this  rhyme :  — 

There  was  a  widow  with  an  honest  name 
Whose  noble  deed  a  long  renown  has  won. 
She,  when  the  cruel  days  of  famine  came, 
Unflinching,   slew   her  daughter  .  .  .  fed   her  son! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Huddled  at  his  feet.] 
Ah,  Live  Forever,  what  a  golden  deed ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Suddenly^  with  fierce  tenderness,  flings  an  arm  about 

her  shoulders  and  holds  her  close.] 
Blossom  of  bliss,  my  arms  have  ached  for  you ! 
Your  presence,  like  the  scent  of  almond  flowers, 
Goes  with  me  to  the  dimness  of  my  shop 
And  through  the  streets  and  even  to  my  Tong ! 


86  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Faintly,  r aptly.] 
Oh,  Breath  of  Heaven ! 


YIONG-YUENG 


[Kissing  her.] 


Moi-Quai!     Little  Rose! 
I  feel  your  roots  entwining  round  my  heart ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
My  husband-master  .  .  .  live  ten  thousand  years! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Ardently.] 

The  demon-spirits  envy  me  my  joy: 
They  cannot  cast  the  darkness  on  my  path 
Since  you  have  lit  the  lantern  of  our  love ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Clinging  to  him  in  timid  rapture.] 
Fair  words  ...  I  cannot  wash  them  from  my  ears 

SAN-CHI 
[Sleepily.] 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  will  go  out  again ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Nervously,  running  to  rouse  him.} 
Beautiful  Bird!     Wake!     You  are  dreaming  still! 

SAN-CHI 
[Rubs  his  eyes.] 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  87 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Rising.] 

It  is  the  hour  of  meeting  for  my  Tong! 

Do  not  go  near  the  window,  Woo-Liu-Mai. 

White  Devils  throng  the  tea-house  of  Chan  Sing; 

They  peek  and  pry, —  may  demons  drink  their  blood! 

They  often  walk  along  the  balcony, 

So,  keep  within  the  shadow  of  the  room. 

I  mean  to  seek  another  dwelling  soon. 

[Goes  to  door,  Right,  pauses.] 
Son  of  affliction,  get  you  to  your  bed ! 
Farewell,  and  fragrant  thoughts,  Sweet  Smelling  Flower ! 

[He  goes  out.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Devotedly.] 
Peace  wait  upon  your  steps,  Celestial  Spouse ! 

SAN-CHI. 
[Eagerly.] 
Now  he  is  gone  and  you  can  take  me  out ! 

[Faint  sounds  of  revelry  and  a  crackle  of  fire-crack 
ers  heard.] 
Soul-of-a-toad,  I  will  go  down  again ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

No,  no,  San-Chi !     You  heard  your  sire's  command ! 
Not  even  to  the  window  !  —     But  we  '11  play  ! 
Come,  let  us  play  a  game!     What  shall  I  be?  — 
The  swift  steed  that  the  fearless  horseman  drives? 


88  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

SAN-CHI 

[Brightening.] 

And  I  shall  beat  you  !     I  shall  beat  you  !     Quick ! 
Where  are  my  reins?     My  whip?     I  want  my  whip! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Sighing,  slips  silken  reins  over  her  head  and  puts 
a  bamboo  cane  in  his  hand.] 

SAN-CHI 

[Gleefully,  striking  her.] 
Get  up,  my  swift  steed! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Prancing.] 
See  how  fast  I  go! 

SAN-CHI 
[Beating  her.] 
My  wild  horse  must  be  tamed !     It  must  be  tamed ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Crying  out.] 
Mercy,  Kind  Master!     Mercy  on  your  beast! 

SAN-CHI 

[Beating  her  with  impish  enjoyment.] 
Wait!     Are  you  weeping?     Let  me  feel  your  tears! 

[Puts  his  hand  on  her  face,  chuckles  delightedly.} 
Ah,  that  is  good !     Now  I  am  satisfied, 
And  I  will  play  again  the  Sweetmeat  Game. 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  89 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Coaxingly.] 

No,  not  now, —  to-morrow,  Beautiful  Bird  ! 
You  would  fall  ill,  and  I  should  be  to  blame. 

SAN-CHI 

[In  a  passion,  drumming  his  heels  on  the  floor.] 
I  hate  you  !     Hate  you  !     Would  that  I  were  dead ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Pitifully.] 

It  is  very  beautiful  to  be  dead. 
San-Chi  .  .  .  there  is  no  cruel  darkness  there! 
Amiable  Step-son,  life  is  colorless.  .  .  . 
Death  has  gay  streets,  wonderful  sights  to  see.  .  .  . 
Swift    steeds    to    drive  .  .  .  strange    lands    to    journey 
through.  .  .  . 

[Leaning  nearer  to  him,  intensely.] 
Beautiful  Bird  of  Woe,  spread  your  blue  wings ! 
Fly  from  this  land  of  shadow  to  the  light! 

SAN-CHI 
[Peevishly.} 
I  do  not  wish  to  fly !     I  wish  to  eat ! 

[A  blare  of  music  comes  up  from  the  street  and  a 
spiteful  staccato  of  fire-crackers;  he  capers  ex 
citedly.] 

Go  to  the  window  !     Tell  me  what  it  is ! 
Soul-of-a-toad,  make  haste !     Be  eyes  for  me ! 


90  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

I  dare  not  disobey  our  Lord's  command ! 

SAN-CHI 

[In  a  rage,  whipping  out  his  knife.] 
Obey  !     I  am  a  man-child !     I  can  kill ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Gives  a  frightened  cry,  runs  to  the  window,  stands 
on  tip-toe,  her  face  thrust  through  the  bars  so  she 
can  look  down  into  the  street,  clinging  with  both 
hands.] 
Ah,  it  is  wonderful!     San-Chi !     San-Chi ! 

SAN-CHI 

[Beside  himself  as  more  blatant  music  rises  to  them.] 
Oh,  tell  me !     Tell  me !    Tell  me  what  you  see ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Swiftly.] 

People  in  thousands! 
Rag-pickers, 
Mandarins, 

Merchants  and  White  Devils, 
Coolies  and  Hatchet  Men ! 
Banners  and  bunting  — 
Lanterns  like  fire-flies  — 
Lanterns  like  sun-rises  — 
Lanterns  like  lily-ponds  — 
Sky-rockets !     Sky-rockets 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  91 


Silver  and  golden, 
Raining  their  radiance, — 
Torrents  of  stars ! 

[The  drums  are  heard.} 

SAN-CHI 
[Shrilly.} 
I  hear  the  drums ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

The  crowd  is  surging! 
Rising  and  falling, 
Ocean  of  people  — 
Billowing  —  tossing  — 

[Cries  out.] 
The  Dragon  comes! 

[Drums,  music  and  voices  heard.] 
The  crowd  is  swaying, 
It  sways  like  a  sea ! 
Fire-works !     Sky-rockets ! 
Bombs  are  bursting, 
Red  fires  burning,  showers  of  stars ! 

SAN-CHI 
[Thrilled.] 
I  hear  the  drumming ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Blue  fires  burning, 
Darkness  has  vanished, 
Night-time  is  day-time, — 


92  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

The  Dragon  is  coming !  — 

Far  up  the  street! 

The  crowd  flows  out  in  a  solid  wave! 

Bombs  are  bursting  — 

It 's  raining  stars ! 

The  shrill,  sweet  music, 

Shriek  of  the  fiddles  — 

SAN-CHI 

I  hear  them  cheer ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
The  wave  flows  back  — 
It  is  coming !     Coming ! 

[  With  a  little  scream.] 
Ai !     The  Dragon ! 
The  Dragon  is  here  ! 
Long  and  sinuous, 
Snaky  and  terrible, 
Glittering,  gold  as  the  falling  stars, 
Brave  and  scarlet,  green  as  an  emerald, 
Blue  as  the  sea  when  the  — 

[She  breaks  off  with  a  shrill  cry  as — ] 

A   WHITE   DEVIL 

[In  evening  dress,  a  top-hat  rakishly  crushed  over 
one  eye,  runs  along  the  balcony  from  the  tea-house 
and  seises  her  hands  on  the  barsf  so  that  she  is 
pozverless  to  pull  away.] 
[Tipsily.] 

Hello,  cute  lil'  Chink  girl !     Happy  N'  Year ! 
Hey,  fellers,  see  wha'  I  foun' !     Cute  HI'  Chink! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  93 

Come,  gimme  kiss,  nice  little  China  doll ! 
Come  out  an'  play  wiz  me,  cute  lil'  Chink ! 

[Drawing  her  arms  through  the  bars,  till  her  face  is 

against  them.] 

Aw,  don'  be  mean,  lil'  doll !     Gimme  one  kiss  ! 
One,  stingy,  teenty  tiny  New  Y'  kiss! 

[Kisses  her  and  lets  go  of  her  hands.] 
Say,  fellers,  you  don'  know  wha'  fun  you  missed ! 
Lil'  China  pippin!     Gimme  N'  Year  kiss! 

[Laughing  foolishly,  he  disappears.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Drops  moaning  to  the  floor.] 

SAN-CHI 

[Excitedly.] 

Was  it  a  White  Devil,  Soul-of-a-toad? 
Was  it  a  White  Devil?     Answer  me!     Say! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 
[Clasps  her  head  in  her  hands,  moans.} 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Rushing  in  from  the  right,  furiously.] 
Lo-ki !     Woman  of  shame ! 

[As  she  lifts  her  head,  and  starts  crawling  toward 
him.] 

Crawl  to  me,  worm ! 
Infamous,  reeking  in  treacherous  sin ! 


94  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Faintly.] 
Listen,  my  Lord  —  San  Chi, —  it  was  for  him  — 

SAN-CHI 
[Creeps  silently  off,  Left.] 

YIONG-YUENG 

Soil  not  the  name  of  my  afflicted  son ! 

[He  draws  back  his  long,  loose  sleeve,  showing  a 
pistol  strapped  to  his  wrist;  he  pushes  it  down  to 
his  grasp,  lifts  hand,  aims  at  her.] 
Now,  may  ten  thousand  demons  drink  your  blood ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Kneels,  meekly  holding  out  her  arms.] 
My  Lord,  I  die  already  in  your  rage! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Cannot  fire.] 
I  cannot  shatter  flesh  that  I  have  kissed !  .  .  . 

[Drops  pistol,  takes  small  box  from  pocket.] 
Yet  you  shall  die !     I  have  a  poison  here, 
Swift  in  its  power  and  terrible  in  strength.  .  .  . 

\He  places  a  piece  of  pink  sweetmeat  on  the  edge  of 

the  table.] 
Eat !     You  will  fall  asleep  ! 

'[Battling  with  his  emotion,  stands  looking  at  her, 
shuddering.] 

Alas !     My  rose 
Fair  in  the  blossom,  rotten  at  the  root! 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  95 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Moon-of-my-soul,  I  have  been  true  to  you ! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Going  toward  door,  Right.] 
Be  quick!     Within  five  minutes  I  return.  .  .  . 
Then,  if  you  live,  I  call  the  Hatchet  Men ! 
One  gate  of  honor  in  your  wall  of  shame ! 
Open  that  gate,  oh,  shameless,  and  pass  through ! 

[He  goes.] 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Drags  herself  to  the  shrine.] 
Merciful  Goddess  with  ears  in  your  heart.  .  .  . 
Mother  and  comforter  .  .  .  make  him  to  see  — 
His  black  rage  makes  him  blind  — 

SAN-CHI 

[Creeping  in.] 
Soul-of-a-toad ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

Kind  Kwannin  .  .  .  look  on  me  with  summer  face, 
For  it  is  winter  in  my  Lord's  cold  heart! 
Help  him  to  know  ...  to  find  the  hidden  truth  — 
The  hidden  — 

[She  swoons.] 

SAN-CHI 

[Delightedly.] 
—  hidden  ?     It 's  the  Sweetmeat  Game ! 


96  THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME 

[He  begins  to  grope  about,  hunting,  croons  to  him- 
self.] 

Not  where  the  temples  stand  — 
Not  on  the  ocean's  strand  — 
There  is  a  mountain  high  — 
Piercing  the  purple  sky  — 
[He  bumps  against  the  table,  gurgles  with  glee.] 

Mountain  high  .  .  .  purple  sky  .  .  . 
[Gives  a  cry  of  joy  as  his  fingers  close  over  the  poi 
soned  sweetmeat ;  gobbles  it  greedily ;  he  sits  down 
beside  the  table ;  from  the  theater  across  the  way 
comes  a  long,  wailing  melody,  piercing  and  poign 
ant;  he  slips  softly  to  the  floor,  his  arm  across  his 
face,  as  if  in  sleep;  it  is  very  still.  A  little  pause.] 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Rushes  in  from  the  Right,  frantic  with  terror  and 

remorse.] 
Sweet    Smelling   Flower!     My    Plum   Tree!     Woo-Liu- 

Mai ! 

I  saw  him  in  the  street  —  a  drunken  fool  — 
Chan  Sing  has  told  me !     You  were  not  to  blame ! 

[He  sees  her  prostrate  before  the  shrine;  he  looks  at 
the  table  and  sees  the  poison  is  gone;  he  groans.] 
May  demons  torture  me  a  thousand  years ! 

[He  kneels  beside  her,  lifting  her.] 
Mai-Quai !     Small  Rose  !     My  Weeping  Willow  Tree  ! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Faintly.] 

Am  I  in  Paradise  beside  my  Lord  ? 


THE  SWEETMEAT  GAME  97 

YIONG-YUENG 

Here  on  my  heart,  pale  blossom,  pass  to  peace ! 
Then  I  will  follow  on  swift  wings  of  death ! 

WOOLIU-MAI 

[Bewildered.} 
Moon-of-my-soul,  I  did  not  eat  ...  I  swooned! 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Lifting  her  to  her  feet.} 
Sweet  Smelling  Flower!     The  Poison!     It  is  gone! 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[Breathlessly.} 
Merciful  Kwannin  .  .  .  miracle  of  grace.  .  .  . 

[She  goes  to  the  table,  stumbles  against  the  boy;  she 
stoops  over  him  for  an  instant.} 

YIONG-YUENG 

[Seeing  him,  in  a  whisper.] 
What? 

WOO-LIU-MAI 

[With  a  faint,  mysterious  smile.] 
The  Beautiful  Bird  .  .  .  has  flown  away ! 

[The  poignant  melody  drifts  over  the  street  from  the 
theater;  far  off  there  is  the  dull  beat  of  a  drum, 
and  a  sputter  of  fire-crackers.] 

CURTAIN 
FINIS 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF    25     CENTS 

W!LL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


'J&S  30 


MAY   9     1934 
FEG  21  1935 


AUG     9 


LD  21-50m-l,'3 


1938 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


